


Touched by the Arcane

by lisbeth00



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Eldritch, F/F, Femslash, Horror, Lesbian Character, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), POV Third Person, Paranormal, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 70,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisbeth00/pseuds/lisbeth00
Summary: Catherine Potter dreams of things that should not be - a Paleblood sky and the distant screams of a being not quite dead, wrested from its mothers bloodied grasp.
Relationships: It'll be gay - Relationship, It'll be later, Not telling
Comments: 75
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter One | The Dream

* * *

Sea-salt hung in the air as waves lapped gently against the shore. The beach was empty, its sand more that of a thick gravel interspersed with jagged, crumbling shells and pointed rocks than anything one would dream of.

White sand would be what comes to mind, water such a bright blue that it seems to reflect the sky - hot sun bearing down and carrying an almost palpable serenity.

This beach reeked of melancholy, of death.

Sheer craggy rocks lined the inlet and stood high above, as if looking down at the cavernous mouth they wrapped around with some level of anger. Ships masts poked out of the sea, splintered and broken, the deep gray water having swallowed them up, dragged them and their passengers to their depths.

Catherine wondered at this, this dream she found herself in.

It was no nightmare yet it felt as such, a deep fear that seemed to cling to her bones and whisper in her ear.

 _Thou art not welcome here,_ it spoke, not in a voice but in _feeling._ Something so terribly raw as to worry at her very thoughts and send what modicum of sanity she had fleeing into the darkest corners of her mind. _This graveyard, this prison. Thou'rt lost, in mind and body. The Paleblood, yes? O' how it beckons so sweetly._

She stood on the shore, watching as the waves rose, climbing up around her. They wrapped around her waist lovingly, a caress, one of both death and comfort.

_Do not be afraid of thine fate, child, lest you fall to madness. The Blood sings in thine heart. The Nightmare shall be yours, if you will it._

The waves crashed all around, and she drowned in their mothering grasp.

-::-

Catherine shot up, clothes soaked in sweat as she gasped at the cold night air.

Her eyes set upon the canopy around her, deep crimson. She normally thought it a sign of comfort, her one and true home. Now it seemed to choke her, stifle her, tortured by her own love.

Hogwarts hadn't felt like home for a long time.

Not with Cedric dead. Not with Dumbledore seemingly ignoring her. Not with Snape carving at her mind. Not with Umbridge striking lines through her knuckles and casting her blood across a tattered page.

She fiddled with her bandages, the pinkish-red of blood peeking out from against the many woven layers, reminding her of the portraits of Victorian boxers she'd seen once in a history book.

Tired and weary, she snatched her glasses and rose from her bed, legs shaking as she stumbled towards the toilets. Door shutting quietly behind her, she grasped feebly at the sink, holding herself up and looking into the mirror.

Her hair was ragged, sharp black strands hanging about her face as if she had been electrocuted. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, scowling at the way they made her face look even sharper, more starved.

 _Too early in the year,_ she thought. _All skin and bone._

Catherine didn't hate the Dursleys. Not really.

She could understand them in some way. Their fear, their disdain for things that were beyond their knowledge.

It was only natural, she decided - that people fear what they can't possibly understand. People feared Voldemort, and she'd never once figured out what made that man _tick._ The rage he felt, the murderous delight he seemed to display but a few months ago as he struck her friend down.

Cedric was kind, and she had been happy to know him.

He didn't deserve to die. Not like that.

' _Kill the spare.'_

Those words still came to her at her lowest moments, somehow striking her down even further. They hung in her mind as the moon does the sky, pale and indifferent to her pleas for mercy, to just have _one fucking night's rest_ without waking in a cold sweat, body shaking and death on her lips.

She reached forward and turned on the tap, blindingly frigid water pouring into the sink. Ignoring the cold, she took off her glasses and splashed her face, eyes screwed shut against the sudden shock.

Sighing, Catherine flicked the tap shut and wandered back to the dorm, the dimmest bit of light cutting through the drapes and revealing motes of dust dancing along the floor.

Early. Too early.

It always was when she woke.

"Cat? Is that you? Wh- what are you doing up?"

"You want to know what I do in the washroom, Hermione?"

Hermione was suitably embarrassed, face poking out of the red curtains that surrounded her bed turning a similar shade. "I just- you're up early, often. I hear you get up."

"It's fine, really, nothing to worry about." She stood staring at her trunk, trying to decide if it was worth going back to bed or to just get on with her day.

Not that she was having a particularly interesting dream, watching some dour beach rise up and drown her.

No, she'd get an early breakfast, maybe fill out a touch more.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Catherine rummaged through her trunk for a moment, pulling out the first things she set eyes on.

Jumper and plain trousers.

It'd do.

"Alright, well… you know I'm always here, okay?" Hermione whispered, glancing at the other beds. "I just- what Umbridge is doing to you, it's _horrible_. You can talk to me, you know?"

"I know," Catherine echoed. "I'm going to go get some breakfast, elves should be at work already.

Hermione grimaced. "You know, they really shouldn't be- "

"Yeah, yeah, I know." She raised her hands in surrender. "I'm pretty good friends with one of them, if you don't remember."

"Dobby, right?"

"Yup." Catherine grunted, working her way into her clothes. "Excitable little guy, but he's good company."

Humming quietly, Hermione nodded. "Sounds like it. Just… take care of yourself. Okay?"

"Can do."

Catherine slunk out the door and down the stairs, mind wandering as she made her slow journey towards the Great Hall.

The halls were quiet, staircases almost silent as they shifted over one another in mesmerizing patterns.

She still hadn't learned how they work, how to predict them. If she was being honest, she quite liked getting lost. There was always something new to find at Hogwarts, be it a simple abandoned classroom of the Room of Requirement itself.

Oh yeah. DA that evening.

A sigh on her lips, she continued her journey, and a minute or two later Catherine found herself seated at the Gryffindor table, snatching a slice of toast and shovelling eggs and bacon onto her plate.

She buttered it methodically, glancing up at the staff table to see Dumbledore and McGonagall almost huddled together, quite animated as they spoke.

Her eyes glazed over as she watched, exhausted and so damn tired of Dumbledore putting her off, ignoring her, distancing himself from her when all she had were _questions._

'Why me? Why Cedric? Why _any of this?'_ she wanted to scream, letting her words strike him as if a curse. 'Why?'

Dumbledore chose that moment to glance up from his conversation, gaze settling upon her.

Her shoulders stiffened, jaw clenched, and Catherine had to bat down the derision that clawed at her belly.

The Headmaster seemed to grow much older in that moment, eyebrows knitting together and his moustache bristling - a telltale sign of his lips being pursed dramatically, as if an actress from a soap opera.

Throwing caution to the wind, Catherine stood up, marching towards where Dumbledore sat.

"Oh dear," she could see McGonagall mouthing from afar, and Catherine felt her stomach twist.

What was she doing?

She faltered, legs stilling as she looked up at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore seemed resigned, tired, as he raised his hand and beckoned her over. "Catherine, please. What is it?" he asked, his words heavy.

"I… I just… where have you been? I haven't- we haven't talked in, well, a while." She fiddled with the hem of her jumper. "Why are you acting like this?"

McGonagall, seeming to read the mood, took that moment to pat Dumbledore on the arm. "Albus," she said plainly. Not a whisper, but calm and steady. "Tell her."

He seemed to collapse in on himself, and though his head didn't sag, nor did his shoulders quiver, a weight seemed to fall upon him. "Would you like to come to my office, Catherine? I can have your breakfast brought up."

Both excited and fearful, she nodded. "Sure."

Dumbledore smiled faintly at McGonagall as he stood up, snapping his fingers. His food disappeared, and Catherine could only assume hers had as well.

"Come."

She followed him as he rapped his wand against the side door - the one which she'd been dragged into last year to be told she would have to once more fight for her life.

He opened the door, smiling at her awestruck expression as it revealed his own office, hundreds of little instruments whirring about.

"How?"

"Hogwarts has many secrets, many of which even I am not aware of." Dumbledore motioned towards the door. "Take a seat."

Catherine shut the door behind her, settling into the large chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, her fingers trembling.

What had she just gotten herself into?

She stared dumbly at her breakfast, a cup of tea steaming next to it and filling the air with the sweet aroma of bergamot. Trying her best to hide her excitement, she took the mug, sipping quietly as Dumbledore sat down and steepled his fingers, the room suddenly washed in a solemn chill.

"So… Catherine." He clicked his tongue, eyes cast to the ceiling. "This isn't quite how I imagined this year would go. Nor did you, I believe."

She found herself nodding, nose brushing against the mug and staining the tip of it in tea. Catherine scowled, wiping it off with her thumb.

"Your Occlumency lessons haven't been going well, have they?"

"I… no, they haven't." She looked away. "Snape is awful. I can hardly sleep when I'm done with them, the headaches alone…" Catherine blinked heavily. "It's awful."

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, looking almost defeated. "I will speak with Severus about his lessons, and please do not hate me anymore for this, but there was good reason that I asked you to undertake them. There is… information that I would like to tell you, I _have_ to tell you, but your seeming connection with Voldemort makes that nigh impossible."

"I know, I just… it's tough. It feels like you don't trust me, like you don't _want_ me here."

" _Catherine."_ Dumbledore's voice was nearly sorrowful, the pain in it evident. "I could _never_ feel that way, never. You're important to me, terribly so. Would you like to know something?"

"What?"

"It scares these old bones to know how much you mean to me. Family, for an old man with nothing but a school to his name, that's everything."

"Nothing but a school?" she scoffed. "It's _Hogwarts."_

"Yes, but those I hold close are far and few between. I care for all of my students, everyone who walks these halls, but not to the degree that I care for _you."_ Dumbledore picked up his fork, slicing off a bit of hash brown and sticking it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, beard shifting with each click of his teeth. "The Dementor attack this summer sparked a fear in me that I didn't know I had. It made me think. About you, about your home, about your family."

"The Dursleys?"

"Yes." He readjusted his glasses, spindly fingers worrying at the frame. "They don't treat you well, do they?"

"I…" Catherine never imagined he would ever ask him that, to confront that one, awful question. "No. They don't."

"I had thought so. I- I never wished that for you, Catherine. Not once. But Voldemort, even in the state he was in during your childhood - a gheist wandering the forests of Albania - still terrified me. He could still hurt you, get to you, and I thought where better than with her own family?"

"Headmaster, I don't see where this is going - I mean, not to be rude - but I'm confused."

He leaned back in his chair, hands curled over the arm rests. "I made a mistake, Catherine, and I seem to be making it again. I promise to tell you everything, but you _must_ make progress with your Occlumency. The knowledge that you wish to know, that I wish to tell you - it would be no less than _disastrous_ if Voldemort got his hands on it."

"Got his hands on what?"

"Prophecy."

Her world stilled, ears ringing and blood thundering in her skull. "Prophecy?"

"Regarding you and Voldemort, yes."

"I…" She could scarcely think, let alone breathe. Could barely notice as her hands shook and hot tea spilled over her fingers. "That's why? That's why he's after me? Why he came after me when I was just a baby?"

"All that and more," Dumbledore stated sadly. "I'm sorry I cannot tell you everything, but the wording of it matters immensely. Voldemort is aware of the prophecy, has known it since before you were ever born."

"My dreams. Do they have anything to do with it? Why Mister Weasley got attacked?"

"Tom wants something in those halls that he holds dear, but does not wish to reveal himself in his quest to find it." He took another slow bite, looking as if the food tasted of ash. "I imagine he hopes you go there instead, and then attack you in your efforts."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because you have a habit of running headfirst into danger."

Catherine laughed, the sound strained, not her usual lilt. "Because I'm the one that _has_ to. Quirrel, Ginny, Sirius? I'm _always_ the one that has to."

"And that is an incredible mistake on my part, to have even allowed those things to happen in the first place."

"My saving them?"

"Your getting hurt. _Their_ getting hurt. I promise to you, Catherine, this year will be different. But, I fear that I may be ousted from the school sooner rather than later."

" _What?"_ her shout shook the room, even the tiny spinning dials upon the various clockwork objects scattered around the room stilling for a moment.

"Umbridge and the Ministry have an out for the both of us, myself in particular."

"But Fudge is an _idiot."_

"An idiot with the entire country eating out of his palm." Dumbledore paused, almost shocked to find himself admitting it aloud. "We cannot fight Voldemort with a divided country, and better a Minister who mobilizes the Aurors against me than one who doesn't at all."

"I thought I was self-sacrificial," Catherine muttered, putting her tea down.

This time, Dumbledore's laugh echoed out across his office, and Catherine had never heard him sound so amused in her life. "It seems that's something we both need to work on. Now, I will speak to Severus, but please study Occlumency on your own time. Trust me when I say that it will be one of the most useful skills you will ever learn."

"Okay. I… I'll try. I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ever ask of you."

"Thanks Headmaster, I'm uh- I think I need to let all that digest."

He reached across the desk, taking her hand in his own and squeezing it. "My door is always open."

Catherine felt lighter for his words. "Thank you."

She left his office in silence, thoughts jumping from one to the next as she tried to wrestle with what she had just been told.

_Prophecy._

The word felt like poison in her mind, something to be cursed at, as if it were profanity.

That was it. This whole time. Why Voldemort wanted her. Wanted her family.

What, because of a few words?

She laughed to herself as she walked through the halls, startling a nearby portrait.

The only 'seer' she knew was a crackpot at best, half-drunk off sherry and her job nearly in tatters. Catherine knew that Trelawney would soon be off, what with Umbridge's reign of terror nearly in full swing.

Her day went by in a haze, barely cognizant of her professor's words and Hermione's murmured questions.

_Are you sure you're fine? You seem distracted._

Ron didn't seem to care all that much, simply saying to Hermione, 'She's got shit to worry about, of course she's distracted.'

Catherine quite liked it when he had little bouts of wisdom like that. Ron had a way with words, and by way with words she meant that he was terribly blunt, but remarkably funny about it.

'It is the way it is,' seemed to be Ron's motto. A simple statement she could agree with.

'But it's not so simple!' Hermione would cry out. 'There's… all sorts of things that aren't the way they are!'

Then Catherine would laugh, telling them that they're both right _and_ both idiots.

She settled down in her bed, mind still dancing with the realization that Voldemort was after her for a reason, a reason that she was truly yet to know.

"God," she muttered, pinning her glasses to the bedpost with a sticking charm. "What a day."

Catherine rubbed the sleep from her face, exhausted.

What happened that afternoon was… momentous. She'd never seen Dumbledore so open, so _scared._

It gave her hope.

She fell asleep quickly, once more finding herself on a beach surrounded by high walls, the low sobs of a man echoing off towards the sea.


	2. Chapter Two | O’ Sweet Death

Screams the likes of which she’d never heard were what met her this time, looking out upon the distant sea.

A creature unrecognizable, its wet leathery skin resembling that of a whale - a beluga, she thought - covered in frills and empty spines, devoid of bone and hanging loose upon its corpse.

It lay upon the beach, yet somehow it seemed raw. Alive. She could feel her eyes sting, ears threatening to pop and leak out upon her cheeks. It almost shimmered, lain upon sharp sand and the pale nights sky reflected off its still body.

Impossible.

That was the only word to describe such a thing, so horribly wrong and so horribly _right_ that she knew her mind would shear in two if she looked at it but a moment longer, let her gaze tarry for only a second at most.

And yet she still heard screams.

A mourning keen that echoed across the beach, raw and wild and so frenzied that she could feel it settle in her bones. It was a primal fear that ran jagged up her spine, causing thoughts of suicide, of _anything to stop the noise, please, please, please-_

The being that sobbed and cried out against the world was dead and not, trapped somewhere between. Catherine couldn’t put a word to it, language incapable of capturing such a terrible existence.

But _feeling_ could.

It lay deep inside her, sorrow the likes of which would shake the earth. An intrinsic sense of disgust, a miasma that seemed to cling to the air and corrupt all it touched, so much as brush against.

_A child, how it sings, yes? Torn from my belly, poked and prodded until naught remained but a dull ember of what it was, of what it could be._

Catherine cried out in return, tears dripping from her chin and scattering to the wind. ‘ _Why?’_ she howled, blistered, bare as the day she was born. _‘Why?’_

_The plight of man, a curiosity bred in the face something beyond their ken. Greed, it seems, will always be your kinds downfall._

She collapsed to her knees as the world before her shifted, unnatural, wavering as if a mirage. The rocky cliffs that surrounded her were replaced by spires dotted in filigree and fine carvings that reached towards the sky. They were stacked precariously on top of one another, a city upon a city, buildings upon buildings that defied all reason. A dim sun shone down from above, quiet and hidden behind a thin veil of wispy clouds. 

The city was a spit in the face of the most famed architects to have lived, and yet it looked as if they had succeeded.

_The scripture of man given unto himself. A swamp, this place, not one of water and ash but instead, bone. Grass made of flesh. The trees - buildings that climb up, up, up - Laying roots upon their forebears below._

Catherine could see a long bridge in the distance, so expertly crafted it would have brought a tear to her eye if the rest of her view wasn’t mired with coffins and bloodstains, tattered clothes left scattered upon the ground long forgotten. A horse lay next to her, ribs bared to the world and flies dancing over its rotten flesh.

“What is this place?” she found herself muttering, both disgusted and amazed.

_The city named for its mother, a Pthumerian Queen touched by the Great Empty - a void, kind as though a lover._

Her dreams had never quite been like this before. “What do I call it?”

_Yharnam._

She pinched her thigh, startling at the sudden sharp pain it brought. “This is a dream?”

_It is what you make of it._

Her feet began to take her forward, down the steps toward the cavernous maw that opened out into the distance. The city lay above and below, seeming to stretch off into nothingness. A marvel, she thought, for something to be built with nothing but muscle and sweat.

_Was it magical?_

She didn’t know, but there was a sense about it that led her to believe it was. It was in the way that one building turned to many, twisting in a way that made even Hogwarts look as though it were clay fashioned together by the clumsy hands of a child.  
  
There was a madness about the city. In the buildings, in the padlocked coffins (something that scared her, dream or not), in the stench of burning hair and flesh that somehow she _knew_ was human.

“Weird,” Catherine murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the city. _I should ask Dumbledore if this means something. To dream so vividly. Lucid, isn’t that the word?_

She ignored the nagging voice in the back of her mind that screamed and screamed ‘ _This is no dream!’_ She ignored how real the cast iron bannister felt beneath her hands - cold to the touch and scored with claw marks.

Catherine didn’t ignore the steady footsteps that grew closer and closer, turning curiously at whatever creature her imagination had managed to conjure.

Nothing could have prepared her for the hideous being that stepped around the corner.

A man with arms much too long, elbow joining near the bottom of his thigh and a gnarled fist scraping against the dirt. He held a rusted cleaver in one hand and a torch in the other, ragged clothes stained in blood and fur matting his face. His eyes were wild, protuberant and so bloodshot she thought they were soon to burst.

They stood there for a second, eyes locked and bodies still, the only thing to move being the flames that danced atop his bloodied torch.

The man _screamed,_ a hideous sound that quickly spun Catherine’s dream into a nightmare. He lunged forward, slashing at her chest with the cleaver and spattering his grimy features in yet more blood.

_Oh,_ she thought, collapsing to the ground and holding a hand to her chest, fingers pressed against her own ribs and bathed in red. _This is real._

As suddenly as the attack began the man collapsed, a massive _bang_ punctuating his fall and leaving her half-deaf, dizzy and nauseous as her blood poured out onto the stone.

Catherine raised her hand bloodied as it was to her face, scraping away the flecks of brain matter that had fallen upon her and clung to her cheeks. Vision wavering, she could barely make out the figure of a woman with stark white hair shuffling towards her, muttering quietly as she worried over her wounds.

“What- where am I?” She coughed violently, in so much pain she could hardly breathe. “I don’t know- only, only Paleblood.”

The woman took her into her arms, straining under the effort. “Quiet,” she tutted, Catherine cried out as her wound opened further, ribs strained and flesh cracked. “You’re hurt.”

Her mind snapped with the understanding that she was dying, that whatever this was, it was _real._

She was hauled up the steps, through what looked to be a graveyard. Into a building they went, its shadow cast over the tombstones. A low moan escaped her as she was laid upon a gurney, cold and tired, shivering as she grew closer and closer to death.

_Oh god,_ she thought, groaning pitifully. Catherine could feel her heart flutter, beating up against her ribs, cold air settling across her bones.

She must have faded out, as a man suddenly appeared before her, cloth wrapped around his eyes and a wide brimmed top hat laying crookedly over his brow. He huffed, rolling over in his wheelchair, thin leather pads squealing against the floor. 

“Where- where am I? Where’s that woman gone?”

The man ignored her, somehow leering at Catherine through his bandages. “She said you were here for Paleblood. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” He reached down, pawing at the inside of his ragged jacket before drawing out a slip of paper. “Easy enough, with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own.”

“Blood? A t- transfusion?” she gasped, face pressed awkwardly against the gurney.

“Why, you catch on quick,” he chuckled, holding the contract out to her. “Sign it, and we can begin.”

“A- I need a p- pen.”

“No pen, just like this.” He snatched her hand, laying one bloodied finger across the paper.

Catherine coughed and spat, blood dribbling down her chin. Arm trembling, she swiped her finger across the contract, laying a crimson streak in its path.

“Good, good. Let’s begin.” The man reached up, taking a needle attached to a long, thin latex cord that hung from a vial, full to the brim with blood. He jammed it into her elbow without ceremony, Catherine howling in pain. “Don’t you worry. When all this is over you’ll think it a mere bad dream.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she felt the blood race through her veins, burning everything in its path.

-::-

“Ah, you’ve found yourself a hunter...”

-::-

Catherine woke to see a small ocean of blood pooling over the floorboards. She choked, moaning in fear as a massive clawed hand reached out of the pool, covered in fur and pointed wickedly.

A head came soon after - a werewolf, she realized, horror coursing through her veins. “Shit, shit shit shit,” she muttered, trying to scramble away, one hand reached out as if to ward it off.

The wolf crawled closer, still submerged, poking out between slatted wood.

Suddenly, it howled, fur doused in flame and crying out in agony. Catherine’s hand stung, burnt by her own magic. She fell back against the gurney, watching in almost animalistic relief as the creature continued to whimper, its skin and bones turning to ash beneath her flames.

It crumbled, scattered into nothingness, and Catherine let out a long, relieved sigh, lungs aching as she let herself relax.

That relief quickly turned to fear as small hands grasped at her clothes, a low, grating moan emanating from beneath the gurney.

She tried to scramble away, weakened as she was, but she could hardly move her head let alone her arms.

Creatures the likes of which she had never seen crept over her, missing eyes, missing mouths, some of them with their face hacked in two, a long line of gaping flesh running from chin to scalp.

The strain seemed too much, as her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell out of consciousness.

She would occasionally wake, just barely, to catch stray glimpses of that same white haired woman from before. Catherine watched in a drug-fueled haze as she puttered around the clinic, stopping by every so often to check her over, scrawling something on a hastily bound notebook and grumbling to herself as she went along.

Iosefka was her name, learned from errant comments and the questions of a few visitors - those of which were far and few between.

It seemed as if weeks had gone by before she rose, the sun no longer hanging in the sky but instead the moon, the pale glint of white shining in through the window and scattering across the floor. There was no sign of the wolf, no sign of the blood it came from, no sign of the woman that had nursed her back to health.

A sob broke through the quiet. Hers. It was loud and fragile, her pain carried out across the clinic and echoing off dark wood and vials packed full of offal.

Catherine cradled her head in her hands, shivering for no fault of the cold. “What’s happening to me?” she gasped, fingering at the odd clothing she now wore.

It was old, victorian it seemed - dark brown cloth padded with leather and bearing a short cape that hardly covered her shoulder blades. “What’s happening?” she asked again.

_Seek the Paleblood,_ that same voice whispered, almost sultry as it tickled over her mind. _Transcend the hunt._

“What hunt!” Catherine shouted, smashing her fists against the gurney. “Transcend? You’re speaking in riddles!”

_I’m dead,_ she thought, sobbing quietly. _I’m insane. Hearing voices… this is hell._

Slowly, she stepped down from the gurney, the wooden soles of her new shoes clicking softly against the floor. Tears still running down her face, she crept towards the door that lay open, ignoring the one shuttered - imagining it to be locked. She hissed suddenly, nose twitching at the scent of blood.

_How can I smell that?_

It wasn’t in the room, she knew, somewhere far away. It seemed to permeate the entire building - no - the city, a stench that hung from it as if the stone itself had bled.

She stepped slowly, down the stairs and into what looked to be a waiting room lined with cabinets. Catherine retched when she inspected them closer, each one stoppered with iron and holding a different organ inside.

Most were hearts, suffused in a mix of alcohol and blood, fermenting in their own juices. Some were topped full with eyes, some with fingers, another held a tongue cleanly shorn off at the hilt.

“I’m in hell.” Catherine stepped back. “I’m definitely in hell.”

A low snarl caught her ear, wet snaps and the wooden creak of claws scraping at the floor. Heart thundering, she looked around the corner, just barely stifling the frightened gasp that threatened to escape her as she set sights on another wolf.

It was bloodied, some of it from the man beneath it, his chest torn open and throat flayed. The man with the wheelchair, she realized, the tattered cloth around his eyes soaked through. The rest of the blood belonged to the wolf, its arms and chest bearing deep cuts, flesh ragged, as if it had been torn through rather than cut by any knife.

There was a door, just past it, but the wolf blocked her way - fenced in by cots topped with vials of blood and the mutilated corpse beneath its feet.

She had to try.

Taking a deep breath, she dashed out from behind cover, the wolf giving a startled bark as it leapt back from its meal.

Desperate, she grasped at the door handle and threw it open, running out to be met by a familiar graveyard. Frantically looking about, Catherine sprinted toward the rightmost gate, shouting in horror when it hardly budged against her weight.

“No, no,” she panted, hands slipping as she tried to climb the iron rungs.

A loud shriek burst from her throat as claws tore through her spine, legs slumping uselessly beneath her as she collapsed. Her head slammed against the gate, blood trickling down her face as the wolf pressed its muzzle against her back, tongue flicking at the wound.

With a growl, it shredded her to pieces, Catherine howling as her flesh was torn asunder. Each snap, each bite, each rake of its claws lead her closer to death, and she could feel her life ebbing away.

A final gasp, and her eyes dulled, fingers wrapped tightly around cold metal rungs and her body nearly unrecognizable if only for her horrified guise - soaked in blood.

-::-

The corpse in the garden gasped and spluttered, slowly rising from the muck.

It patted itself down, mystified at the state of its body - namely, how it wasn’t mulched and torn as if having been tossed through a shredder.

The wolf.

“How?” Catherine muttered, pressing her hand against the small of her back to feel knotted scar tissue.

She found herself among crooked graves and short iron fences, a building resting at the end of a short path. A tree larger than any she had ever seen towered over it, its branches reaching out overhead like a curtain.

It was an island, she realized. An impossible island.

The land she stood upon was surrounded by pillars so tall they seemed to stretch towards the sky, as if to rally at the moon itself. They poked out of a thick curtain of fog, the substance slowly shifting, though there was no wind to be found. Not a single gust of it, leaving the bushes that lined the graves as still as the bodies buried beneath, white flowers peering out at her silently.

“Ah, good hunter,” a voice called, accent thick. “Welcome to the Dream.”

Catherine shrieked, nearly falling over herself at the sheer size of the woman in front of her.  
  
Maxine had been tall, but she was a giantess. Thick in arms and legs, with a face built for strength less so than beauty.

This woman was not quite as tall, but she came close to it. Dressed up in old clothes better suited for a maid than one who looked to keep the graves Catherine was surrounded by. She towered over her, hair a white so sheer as to be near that of milk, tucked behind her ear in a tight curl.

Even her eyelashes, long and cold, were colourless.

Was she an albino?  
  
No, her eyes were blue, frigid as ice - and her hands, Catherine realized, they were…

“A doll?”

“Yes,” the Doll echoed, offering her a neat curtsy. Her face was porcelain, joints visible between each knuckle - yet in place of bone, they instead bore a globe of shining silver. “I am here in this Dream to look after you.”

“I’m not dead? What- I don’t- this can’t be real.”

The Doll cocked her head to the side. “Real, good hunter?”

“I just- it’s all…” she waved her hands wildly. “This can’t be- it just- it doesn’t make any sense! I just died! In a place that doesn’t- it can’t exist!”

“The waking world, good hunter? It is very real, just as this is.” She spread her arms out, gesturing at the island they stood upon. “You have been brought to hunt beasts, and I shall be here for you. Although… you see me. You speak to me, though we have never met- ” the Doll paused, her face impassive. There were no muscles to shift it, only a small hinge where one's jaw would be. “Strange.”

Catherine’s laugh rang out into the sky. It was a maddened, terrible thing, high pitched and lonely as the obelisks in the distance drank in her hysterical roar.

“That is certainly one way to react,” the Doll murmured, cautiously stepping forward. “Good hunter, are you well?”

“Am I okay?” She pressed a hand to her chest, her laughter having devolved to a hacking fit. “How could I be okay? I don’t even know how I got here, let alone what that monster was. Two of them! I almost died, and then I did! I died!” Her hands found their way upward, tangling in her hair. “Is this some sort of joke, huh? What is this place, hell? This- this is what I had to look forward to?”

“Good hunter, please…” the Doll extended her hand. “This is the dream. You are of Yharnam, no? Home of the Church?”

“I’m from _England._ Britain! Yharnam isn’t- it’s not _real_ . It’s just a part of my dream! This is all- this is all just a bad dream!” she crowed, frenzied laughter bubbling up inside her. “Right? _Right?”_

“I am afraid that I have heard of no place named England, good hunter… and, you are not dead. You are just inbetween. Here, in the dream. Please, good hunter. I- you are not well.”

_I’m insane. I’ve gone insane._

She pushed the Doll away, running headlong up the steps.

At least, she tried. Instead, Catherine found herself tripping, knocking her head against the stone and groaning pitifully.

Dazed, she looked over to see what had caught her feet, only to see a blade having risen from the earth. It was suspended on miniature hands with paper flesh. Those same creatures from before, from the sickroom, followed in their path, poking their heads out of a shimmering pool of smoke.

She found herself cackling at the sight, tears streaming down her face.

“Good hunter, please. You’re scaring the little ones.”

“Scaring them? _Look at them!_ They’re… they’re hideous! Little ones? _”_ She edged away, crawling along her back. “How could I possibly scare something _like that?”_

The creatures bowed their heads at her remark, letting out a low crooning wail.

Somehow, that seemed to spark something in her, a modicum of sanity that seemed hidden until then. “I… oh. I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, now… please, good hunter. I can answer any questions you may have, just do not hurt the little ones.”

“Why are they holding a cleaver?” Catherine asked, studying the well-worn instrument.

It was rusted, caked in blood and wrapped from blade to hilt in strips of cloth. The edge itself held an array of wicked teeth, each one curled into a point and angled inward.

The intent was clear.

To tear. Rend. Flay.

It was not a kind weapon, not by any means, but above all else it looked _effective._ Too large, too terrible for anything but monsters.

This blade was not meant for man.

“It is a gift. For you. The Messengers - little ones - they wish you to have it.”

“A gift?” Catherine eyed it dangerously, glancing between the blade and the Doll. “Why?”

“A hunter must hunt, what better than with a blade fashioned by Gehrman himself?”

She reached forward, trepidation in every flex of the muscle, fear in her bones as the joint of her elbow rolled open. The Messengers cooed happily as she took the blade from their grasp. 

Catherine grunted, surprised by its weight. She watched as the Messengers disappeared for but a moment before resurfacing, now bearing an old flintlock pistol.

“You… want me to take that too?”

They nodded fervently, tiny heads bobbing back and forth as they raised the weapon even higher.

“I… okay.” Catherine looked up at the doll as she took the pistol, hands slick with sweat and trying desperately to steel her grip.

She glanced down, finding a small holster already hanging from her belt.

Convenient.

Tucking the pistol away, she hefted the blade above her head, arm strained.

“It’s heavy. Very heavy.”

“You must be weak, good hunter.”

Catherine snorted. “A witch, strong? You’ve obviously never met one before.”

The Doll gasped quietly, hand placed over her mouth. “A witch?”

“What?” Catherine gestured around her. At the impossible pillars. At the tree that seemed to kiss the sky itself. “You live here, yet magic is somehow beyond you?”

“No true magic, no. Only- ” she froze, eyes flickering towards the moon. “Never, have I heard of true magic.”

Catherine sat up, back aching as she propped the blade up against the stairs, metal clinking against stone. She slung her arms over her knees, muddling over her situation.  
  
Dementors. Prophecy. A man who wanted her dead before she had even been born.

Another dimension only seemed the next logical step.

She wasn’t happy with this by any means. She was terrified, frozen and awestruck, yet she found herself resigned.

What was her life without madness? Without danger? Without monsters in the dark?

Her low chuckle broke the silence. Oh, but this was different, she knew. Something beyond herself.

Another world. Another time. A city trapped in the past, or maybe that was just its present? Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.

That beach. The voice that spoke to her in her dreams. It had been with her for so long. Not always the same, not always a beach - _that_ beach - but the voice? It had followed her from childhood, only appearing when she slept.

She had thought it just a recurring nightmare, something all children, all people deal with.

Because who doesn’t have nightmares? Who wouldn’t wake up in a cold sweat after seeing what she had?

Post-traumatic stress disorder, she had learned. Shell shock. A little term hidden away in one of the books she had found in the Surrey library. Psychology interested her even at a young age, studies of the mind, studies of the soul. She didn’t know much, if any, but that term stood out to her. It wasn’t until years later before she realized what it meant, after too many sleepless nights and weeks spent with little to no food through no fault but her own.

Not the Dursleys, but _her._ She couldn’t bear to eat. Not after Cedric. Not after the Dementors.

“How did I get here?”

The Doll seemed to waver, and though she didn’t move, Catherine _knew._ Somehow, she knew.

“Countless hunters have visited this dream, though, I do not know exactly how.” She crossed her hands in front of her lap, head bowing slightly. “I’m sorry, you must be confused. Terrified. You’re not from Yharnam?”

“No… I- I was brought there. I don’t know how, I was dreaming. Asleep. I just… didn’t wake up.”

“From where?”

“I’m… from an island country, called Britain. England is another one of its names. It’s… nothing like Yharnam. Maybe long ago. I… it’s Yharnam, right?”

The Doll hummed.

“Yharnam is… it’s so far behind. This? This building?” She pointed at the one not ten feet away from her. “It’s new?”

“I would say so.” The Doll tilted her head. “Why?”

“Only very old buildings look like that where I’m from. Hundreds of years old, over half a millennium. The way you speak, it's as if… this is practically a medieval fantasy, yet, everythings all mixed up. You have guns, weapons like this- ” she lifted the cleaver, pointing at the latch at the end of the haft. “We never had _anything_ like this. It moves, doesn’t it?”

Cathrine fiddled with it, looking for a button or lever. “How does it work?”

“Here,” the Doll said, leaning forward and pointing at a groove in the handle. “Press and flick.”

Catherine did as she was told, the cleaver snapping forward to reveal a smooth section of blade, no hooks or tines to be found. She winced, her wrist aching.

Rolling the weapon in her palm, she curled her bicep. It must have been near three stone.

She still couldn’t believe how heavy the damned thing was. The Doll expected her to use it? How? And on what?

“This world is so different from my own. Is… is whatever this is permanent?”

_Lest you fail to hunt, it shall be._

“Fuck!” Catherine shouted, batting at her head.

“Good hunter! What is it?”

“That voice! That fucking voice!”

The Doll rushed forward, taking her hand. “What voice?”

Catherine tore away from her - _it,_ she told herself - shocked to find how warm the Doll was. “Something… some _being,_ I don’t know. It… it’s followed me all my life, when I sleep. I think it brought me here.”

“To the dream?” the Doll whispered. She glanced to the sky questioningly, nodding at nothing. “I… I only know of one thing that could bring you to Yharnam, and if what you say is true, something brought you here.”

“What? What could have brought me here?”

“A god.”

“A god…” she repeated, dumbstruck. “You’re serious.”

It made sense. To be torn from her world and brought into this, through a dream no less.

A dream to a dream.

She laughed, shaking her head.

It seemed so crazy. Insane. _Impossible._ Yet it made sense.

What else could possibly do such a thing, but a god? She only found out about the existence of magic five years ago, how much of a leap could it be for gods to exist?

“A god brought me here?”

“There are many gods. Some are faceless. Some are nameless. One, famous above all others, has no form to speak of. Each is quite unique.” She fiddled with her thumb, sighing quietly. “I am sorry, good hunter, but any further knowledge is beyond me.”

Catherine shut her eyes, fighting down the tears that threatened to resurface.

She’d done more crying today than she had in her entire life.

“So, what now? You keep calling me hunter, what does that mean?”

“A hunter must hunt,” the Doll stated, echoing her own words. “The beasts, the ones that killed you. The hunt exists for them.”

She blinked heavily, biting her lip. “It’s always a fight, isn’t it?” Catherine stood up, lifting the cleaver with some uncertainty. “You wouldn’t happen to have a wand, would you?”

“A wand?”

“Yeah, so I can, you know, cast some spells?”

The Doll squeaked, glancing to her right. “The Messengers may have one, but I’ve never thought to ask.”

Catherine stood up. “Where can I find them? They’ve disappeared.”

She gestured towards a bird bath, nestled in a small crook next to a path leading up to the other side of the building. “They can be found in the basin, there."

Approaching the bath, she startled when Messengers flung themselves over the top, smoke leaking out of the bird bath and reminding her painfully of Dumbledore’s pensieve.

“Hello,” she said, feeling very unsure of herself. “Do you… do you have a wand?”

The Messengers looked at each other, heads bobbing and twisting. They turned back to her, all shoulders, looking almost dejected.  
  
“I… yeah, okay.” Catherine turned back to the Doll. “So, hunting, you said?”

“Yes! Of course.” The Doll hurried forward, taking her hand once more.

Catherine did her best not to flinch, the sensation of warm porcelain unnerving. “What are you doing?”

“Strengthening you, of course. There is power to be found in blood. Think of it as a gift.” The Dolls hands glowed, and Catherine could feel as her veins set alight, a sensation like she’d never felt before.

It was bright, _hot,_ yet not even remotely painful. The feeling washed over her as if a soothing blanket of water, suffusing her being and fluttering through her belly.

“I… _wow,_ I mean- what on earth?” She flexed her arm, the blade rising much easier. Lighter, smoother.   
  
Amazing.

“There seems to be something about you, good hunter. You’re steeped in the blood, yet, you say you’ve never stepped foot in Yharnam until this day. Curious…”

“Curious?”

“Nothing.” The Doll shook her head. “Please, forgive me. If you would speak with Gehrman, in the Workshop, he can tell you what must be done.”  
  
“Gehrman?”

“The master of this dream.”

Nodding awkwardly, Catherine looked toward the building - Workshop - she now knew. “Alright.”


	3. Chapter Three | Whispers of the Blood

Gehrman, it seemed, was an old man bound to a stunted wheelchair. The clothes he wore were frayed, hanging off his shoulders as if a poncho fashioned from a potato sack. Greasy hair seemed to fall out from beneath his drooping cap, wide brimmed and covered in patched leather.

He chuckled as Catherine entered the Workshop, his head just barely tilting in her direction. "You must be the new hunter. The Doll has spoken to you, I presume?"

"Yeah, she uh- gave me the rundown."

"Strange, the manner in which you speak…" he turned his chair, the wheels squealing quietly. "So improper… well, it matters not. I am Gehrman, a friend to you hunters." The wizened man leaned forward, squinting at her. Catherine couldn't help but notice the stump of a peg-leg in the place of his right food, wood chipped and scarred. "Sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard of all this. Just go out and kill a few beasts." He waved his hand towards the door. "It's for your own good."

"What? That's it?" Catherine looked about the room, at the half-made blades hanging off the wall, a table packed to the brim with the strangest tools she'd ever set eyes on. "Just go out and kill a few beasts? That's all you'll tell me?"

Scowling, Gehrman rapped his cane against the floor. "It's all that must be done. Simple as that." He turned away from her, but not before casting one sly glance over his shoulder. "We don't have as many tools as we once did, in this old workshop, but… you're welcome to use whatever you find." The man's voice took on a salacious tone, sending a shiver down Catherine's spine. "Even the doll, should it please you."

Wheels scraping at the floorboards, he pushed himself out the door and towards the garden, ignoring Catherine's hurried stuttering.

"I… what?"

Where was that courage just yesterday, in the Great Hall? She paused. Yesterday, maybe?

She didn't know. Time probably worked strangely here, judging how she was currently dead and yet not.

A lot of rules seemed to be broken in this place.

Confused, irritated, and just a slight bit mad, Catherine left through the door she had entered, shoulders rising at the Dolls plaintive expression.

"He's a prick, isn't he?"

Gasping, the Doll shook her head. "Oh dear. I wouldn't speak such things, good hunter."

"Please, I- you don't need to call me good hunter. It's… I don't know, it's strange."

"What would you rather go by?"

"I'm Catherine. Cat, to my friends." She slid the hood of her shrug back, ruffling her hair. "Shit."

She may never see them again.

Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Luna, Ginny, Dumbledore.

Even the D.A., they'd never speak to her, never attend another one of her lessons.

Yes, she wasn't too pleased when Hermione came to her about an - admittedly - absolutely _insane_ idea. But she'd grown accustomed to them, to their company. Even Zachariah Smith, the toff that he was, could manage to hold a good conversation.

Christ. Hermione. She'd never…

 _No._ Catherine shook her head. She wouldn't tempt such thoughts, refused to. There had to be a way back. Maybe hunting was the answer. _Just go out and kill a few beasts,_ Gehrman had said.

If that was what it took, that was what she would do.

"Good- ah, Catherine." The Doll hummed. "Are you royalty?"

She spluttered. "What?"

"Royalty? Your name, it is that of a Lady, no?"

"No, no." Catherine waved her hand. "There's not really royalty where I come from. Not anymore."

Smiling, the Doll inclined her head. "No royalty you say? How interesting. If you would be so kind as to humour me, I would like to hear of your home someday. If you wish to, of course."

"Yeah, I… I'll think about it." Scratching the back of her neck, she looked over the island. "How am I supposed to leave this place? I can, right?"

"Yes, of course." Hurried, the Doll motioned towards the tombstones flanking her path, the only ones save a few opposite that seemed to stand up straight, not crooked and shorn at the corners. "All you must do is will it, and you shall appear. Though, one must have visited- "

"It's like apparition?"

"Apparition?"

"It's a… nevermind. I got it, thank you. Sorry for, well, interrupting, I just- "

The Doll simply smiled and raised her shoulders. "I understand, Catherine."

A small murmur sounded from below her, and she looked down to see the Messengers having reappeared, waving a little leather coin-purse about.

She stooped down, picking it up with a quiet ' _thank you,'_ the bag giving a small rattle as she opened it up.

Bullets.

The Messengers waved goodbye as she strapped the coin-purse to her belt. "So…" she trailed off, wetting her lips nervously as she turned back to the Doll. "If I die? Down there?"

"It will be as if nothing had ever happened." Bowing, the Doll smoothed out her skirt. "I will await you, Catherine, do take care."

"Okay. Uh- see you soon, I guess." Offering an awkward wave, Catherine kneeled in front of the tombstone, idly tracing her fingers across the etchings upon its surface.

It bore not a person's name, but instead a diagram - that of a very familiar clinic.

"Strange." She tapped her finger against the crude carving, the location suddenly appearing in her mind's eye.

Willing it, she allowed the magic of the tombstone to wash over her, the world shimmering in a light haze before she found herself kneeling in front of a small lantern in the midst of Iosefka's Clinic.

Messengers moaned and cried from below her, cast in the pastel blue light of the lantern's odd, immaterial flame.

"Not dead, eh?" She stood up, wiping the dust from her knees. Not that it mattered much, as she was sure she'd be spattered in blood soon.

Her heart clenched at the thought, terror licking at her mind as she thought of the wolf one room over - if it was still there, that was.

Catherine flinched at the sound of clattering to her right, up the staircase.

Curious, she followed the noise, coming to the top to find the door locked and shuttered. "Hello?" Catherine hesitated. "Is… Iosefka, are you there?"

"Who is it?"

"One of your patients. Catherine, but, I guess you didn't get my name." She chuckled quietly. "You… you saved me, I don't know how long ago. Shot- I don't know how to describe it. A man, covered in fur."

"Oh. My apologies," Iosefka rambled, the steady clinking of glass leaking through the door. "I can smell the blood about you, and I know that you hunt for us - for our town - but I cannot open this door."

"The blood?"

"Are you not a hunter?"

_Am I?_

"I… I think I am. That's what I've been told, at least."

"Then I am truly sorry. The patients here in my clinic must not be exposed to infection."

"Oh. Yeah, uh." Catherine looked to the ceiling, letting out a slow sigh. "Sure. I just wanted to say thanks for helping me, and I'm sorry about what happened to the other man, in the wheelchair."

"What other man?"

"The other… the guy who gave me a transfusion? Old, got a beard, bandages round his eyes?"

"I know of no such man. You said he gave you a transfusion?"

Christine froze. "I… then he didn't work for you? But he was in the room with you, when you brought me in."

"I thought you were _dead._ Forgive me, but I can recollect no such thing. You were given a transfusion, but by me, not by any… strange man. I have no one by that description working alongside me."

"But, the contract- "

"Contract?"

She cursed. "Dammit. I'm sorry, I- forget everything I just said. I must have been confused. I'd lost a lot of blood."

Iosefka huffed from behind the door. "You are strange… Lady Catherine, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, lest you change within these halls. I cannot allow a blood-drunk hunter to remain here."

"Blood drunk?"

A laugh. "You must truly be new to Yharnam. How is it that you came to be a hunter?"

Catherine felt close to tears. "I don't know."

"Well, nevermind the details. Go out, please, and do not return unless it is strictly necessary. My patients, you see, they're- "

"Frail, I know." Catherine ran her fingers through her hair. "I'll leave you alone. Er- thank you, again."

"No need to thank me, please. I wish you the best of luck, hunter."

"Thanks," she muttered, walking back down the stairs.

Her hands trembled as she looked around the corner of the bottom level, the wolf that killed her - _killed her -_ gone.

Breath caught in her throat, Catherine slowly made her way past the now unrecognizable corpse of the Blood Minister, nothing left of him but a puddle of blood and bone.

 _Don't look at it,_ she told herself, bile rising in her throat.

There were a few vials left near the open door, faintly glimmering in the moonlight.

She stooped down to pick them up, flicking her finger at the glass and wincing at the small _ping_ it made. Fiddling with the many straps and belts attached to her clothing (who needed so many belts?) she found a series of short loops that ended in latches. Taking the vials, she tucked them into the loops, cinching the leather shut around the casing.

How terribly convenient. Again.

Rolling her jaw, Catherine hefted the cleaver, testing its weight and balance.

Didn't want to fall over herself swinging the damned thing.

Tentatively, she pressed her hand to the door frame, looking around the corner to see the wolf resting near the gate. That same gate she tried to climb, to escape certain death.

The ground surrounding it was suffused in red, the creatures maw caked in blood and claws bearing dried chunks of flesh. _Her_ flesh, she knew, though no corpse remained.

Did she just disappear? Did it eat her whole, flesh, bone and all?

Shaking her head, she gripped the haft of the cleaver tightly, dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet.

_Just do it. Go. Do it!_

Her teeth were sore, jaw clenched so tight she thought they may crumble in her mouth. Catherine's heart thundered, loud and terrible as she tried to wrest up some level of murderous intent.

She'd never killed, at least - not _tried_ to kill something.

Quirrel… he was a mistake. Catherine didn't mean for him to die, she just wanted him _gone._ Away from her, where he couldn't hurt her. Kill her.

This was different.

This was preemptive.

"Alright," she whispered, shoulders flexing. "Here goes nothing."

Dashing forward, she dragged the cleaver through the wolf's tough hide before it could so much as stand, the creature howling in pain, blood splashing against the dirt.

Catherine grit her teeth, ignoring how the blood clung to her pant legs, seeping through the cloth and staining her ankles red.

The wolf slashed at her, Catherine shrieking as its claws tore through her flank.

" _Fuck!"_ she shouted, flicking the switch on her cleaver and driving the smooth end of the blade into the creature's back. Its bones creaked as the steel was buried deep in its spine, a fountain of blood spraying from the wound.

Whole body shuddering, the wolf collapsed, scrabbling feebly at the mossy stone.

Disgusted, Catherine planted her foot against its back as she _wrenched_ the blade from its body, covering herself in yet more blood.

Raising the cleaver high above her head, she slammed it into the creature's skull, right between the eyes..

Again, again, again.

Bone and pulped flesh flew across the graveyard as she turned its upper body into a fine mulch, screaming all the while.

" _Die, dammit! Die!"_ she roared, giving one last final swing and leaving her blade buried in the twitching pile of gore.

Exhausted, she collapsed, falling onto her back. Her tailbone stung horribly, and she could feel the blood running down her side in smooth waves.

Her body shook with adrenaline as she fiddled dumbly with her bloodied clothes, staring at the corpse of the wolf.

" _Shit, shit, shit, shit."_ Catherine moved to wipe her face, grimacing when she just served to spread the blood further. "What the hell."

She turned over, vomiting onto the stone. The bile stung, mouth tingling as she retched. Catherine didn't bother with her hair, soaked in blood as it was, instead letting it flutter over the pool of sick.

"Oh, good god," she hacked, spitting on the ground. "What the- how am I supposed to keep doing this?"

The wolf's head had been reduced to a pulp, brain matter scattered across the dirt and flecked with slivers of bone.

She did that.

_She did._

How was she supposed to do more, to _hunt_ like that?

That wasn't hunting. That was slaughter.

It was not clean, it was not planned - methodical. It was murderous hedonism, a blind fervor that she thought only Voldemort capable of.

Lord, how it sickened her.

Her side ached as she slowly drew herself up. Hissing, she pressed her hand to the wound, fresh blood mingling with the now cooling wet that stained her fingers.

Fumbling, she snatched up a vial, staring at the offending substance.

 _This heals?_ Catherine wondered, the tip of the needle glinting dangerously. _Well, only one way to find out._

She jabbed it into her thigh, a mechanism within the vial snapping into place and forcing the blood through her veins, laying wet against coiled muscle.

The wound on her side began to tingle, slowly shutting of its own volition.

Laughing at the sight, she could feel a part of herself jump forward - something hidden and nightmarish. "Look at that. I'm a vampire."

Catherine could feel the power of it, that blood rushing through her body as if magic itself. It burned so hotly, so brightly, she thought she may cry.

It was wonderful.

Mind buzzing, she wrenched the blade out of the corpse and lumbered toward the open gate, looking out at that same first sight of Yharnam she had caught but a few days ago.

"Beautiful," she murmured, something different about the view.

The moon hung low in the sky, so vibrant it seemed as if it were the sun - cooled into a gem so fine as to be coveted by any king, any lord who wished to take it.

"Alright."

Catherine followed the path, past the decaying horse, even more bone revealed and its flesh turned into a soup of gangrene and rot. She could hear people - _smell people -_ just round the corner, a stench of dog about them.

Maddened whispers and the scraping of metal against stone grew closer and closer as she slowly tread forward, looking to see another man even more beastly than the one who lay dead not a few paces behind her, his brains scattered across the pavement.

His teeth were hooked, gnarled into thick spines that jutted from between his lips. Fur covered him in patches. Mange, it looked like, and he held a pitchfork tightly in clawed hands.

 _The wolf,_ she realized. _It's human._

It was unmistakable. The lengthening of his teeth, how his face was beginning to draw down into a point. A muzzle, it looked like. _Wrong._

Another wave of nausea ran through her like a spear, throat bobbing as she fought back her revulsion.

 _I killed someone. A person. It… Lupin. Just like Lupin._ Horrified, she stumbled back, mind swimming as she thought over the beast - its eyes alight with some terrible fury. A hunger, so deep and unsettling that its very soul was torn to shreds.

" _Fuck."_

She'd never sworn so much in her life.

The man spun around, ears perking up as though a wolf.

_That really was a person._

He swung at her with the pitchfork, the prongs whistling through the air. Catherine leapt back on reflex, hurrying out of the way of his attack. The beast pursued, shouting, "Gone! Begone!" as he thrust and flung about the tool aimlessly, eyes wide and unseeing.

Catherine scrabbled at the pistol at her waist, fingers scraping against the wooden stock as she drew it up to chest height and pulled the trigger.

The shot went wide, tearing up bits of stone from the building that loomed up behind the man.

That only served to make him more erratic, more angry and terrified as he rushed towards her.

Shouting in fright, Catherine batted his spear aside with the flat of her blade, pulling it back up to bash him in the face as he looked down at his weapon - stunned.

He stumbled backwards, pressing one hand to his cheek and howling.

She pushed on, mind alight as she ran the cleaver through his chest - the steel ripping through his clothes and laying a deep bloodied line through knotted muscle.

Blood spattered the ground as Catherine swiped the blade again, hooks catching on flesh and bone and _tearing_ him apart. Wails the likes of which she'd never heard spilled from his lips just as red spilled from his chest, the beast clutching feebly at the muscle and serving only to spread it apart, claws embedded in his own skin.

She panted, finger and thumb poking into the coin-purse and drawing out another bullet, just now noticing how it seemed much too bright. Popping it into the end of the surprisingly modern flintlock, she once more pulled the trigger.

The back of the man's head exploded as the bullet shot through the bottom of his chin and out his skull - spraying a fine pink mist across the footpath.

"I guess it doesn't need more powder," Catherine gasped, staring at the gun in some small amount of awe.

It seemed normal, _looked_ normal, and it was anything but.

And then she remembered the man - _two_ men - she had just killed.

"How did I…"

The blood was strong in her mind. She could still feel it in her veins, coiled tight. It whispered sweet words, a thrumming song that spoke of bloodshed and terror.

Catherine rested against the wall, unable to tear her eyes away from the corpse at her feet.

 _It makes it easier, the blood,_ she thought - studying the way his own pooled between grooves in the stone, trickling downhill in some macabre dance. _Too easy._

"Is that what turned you into what you are?" Catherine asked the corpse, brokering no answer.

Iosefka's words still rung in her mind. 'Blood-drunk' she had said, a hint of fear in her words. Was that what it meant? To be debased? Turned into… this? A mindless animal?

She ignored the nausea that threatened to resurface as she looked about, noticing a strange contraption - a lever - resting next to the wall.

Of course, the only thing she could do was see what happened when she pulled it.

Following her curiosity, she wrapped her hands around the lever and yanked back, the heavy click of iron resounding across the barren street.

A ladder from far above clattered to the ground, sliding down like clockwork.

"What?" she looked it up and down, following its path towards another layer of the city overhead.

_Why a ladder? Why not stairs?_

Ignoring the insanity of it all, Catherine started up the ladder. She'd never really _climbed_ a ladder before, she realized. Not like this. One in a library didn't quite count, Catherine imagined, not when you could simply levitate a book off the shelf.

This one though, it went up and up and up, almost unreasonably so.

If not for whatever magic the Doll had worked on her, she may have been slightly winded upon reaching the top, hoisting herself up onto another layer of dense stonework, more houses scattered about and another (she assumed) locked gate.

But, the lantern poking out of the ground before her was what caught her interest, unlit yet still somehow basked in that same immaterial glow.

She kneeled, curious as to why the Messengers weren't yet there, dancing around the magical object. Waving at it seemed to do nothing, so she flicked the lantern itself - watching it bob to and fro.

Annoyed, she snapped at it as if it were a misbehaving dog.

For some odd reason, that seemed to be what had worked, the lantern brightening considerably and that familiar silver smoke curling up around its base.

Stepping back, she nodded at it, as if she'd somehow solved some mind bending puzzle.

 _So that's how I get around this place?_ She looked out over the city, taking in the flickering lights and the smell of sharp incense.

"Why the incense?" she wondered aloud.

"To ward off the beasts, ma'am."

Catherine jumped, turning to the voice only to see a shadow of a man illuminated through the window nearest her.

"It keeps them away?"

"Aye." He coughed horribly, a thick retch so powerful she thought his ribs may crack. "Wards them off. You an outsider as well?"

"You too?"

The man hummed an affirmative. "Came here for blood healing, talk even reached my little village. Though, I haven't heard much of outsiders becoming hunters. How did that come to pass?"

Laughing, Catherine found herself offering the man a shrug, although she doubted he could see her through the curtains. "Honestly, I have no idea. I just… woke up here, I guess. It was the only path given to me."

"Well, Yharnam has a special way of treating guests. You won't find many who are willing to give you the time. Not a life I would wish but it keeps me whole." Another coughing fit overtook him, and Catherine could hear the man gasping for breath. "Whole town is cursed. So, whatever your path, change it. The only thing to do is plan a swift exit."

"I don't exactly have much of a choice," she mused, guts twisting. "I just… have you heard of undead here? Those who can't die?"

"Can't say I have, though, that seems an even worse fate than that of a hunter. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. It's just part of why I'm here, I guess." Catherine paused, suddenly remembering the words of the voice - that creature, that _god_ that spoke to her. "Paleblood. Do you know anything about it?"

"Paleblood?" The man tasted the word, voice curious. "Haven't a clue, but, the Healing Church should have your answers. They control all knowledge of blood ministration."

She leaned forward. "Where? Where can I find them?"

"Across the valley to the east." His shadow pointed towards the bridge. "Cathedral Ward. Some say it's the birthplace of the church, but that's all guesswork on my part." He laughed. "Outsiders aren't told much, and it's not a pleasant place… though you don't have much choice, do you?"

"No, I don't." Catherine sighed, eyeing the bridge disdainfully. She could see silhouettes moving across it in the distance. Beasts, she imagined. "Thank you… and, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Gilbert. Gilbert is my name."

"Well, thanks for the help Gilbert. I hope you feel better soon."

He laughed again, shaking his head through the window. "If only. Take care of yourself, hunter. Don't let those of the church lead you astray."

Offering a wave to him, Catherine turned and pushed at the gate.

Nothing.

Not knowing why she expected any different, she turned round the corner and followed the next path. The bridge was almost level with her, at least, she thought it was at a distance. This seemed the only way to reach it.

_Just gotta' get to Cathedral Ward… whatever that is. Get this over with. Get home. That's it._

Catherine took a deep breath, following the path down to a short platform overlooking singed wagons and a small group of beastmen slowly walking towards the flickering of a bonfire, its light cast off the stone walls and reflecting eerily down the street.

_Please tell me that's not the way._

She crossed the overpass, shrieking in fright as a man leapt over a stack of crates, wildly flailing a kitchen knife as he rushed at her.

Lashing out, she took his arm off at the elbow, the man screaming as the bloodied limb fell to the ground.

Working quickly, she flicked the cleaver open and drove the blade into his shoulder, hacking once - twice - and leaving his corpse on the ground, chest torn open from neck to navel.

 _Don't look,_ she told herself, blood thundering in her ears as she hopped down the steps and rushed the three men walking towards the fire.

_Fight, fight, fight, fight-_

Catherine killed the first before he could even so much as grunt in pain, legs falling out from under him as he struck the ground - nose snapping loudly.

If there was anything she knew how to do, it was _fight._

She'd fought her whole life. Against the Dursleys, Voldemort, Snape. Even Draco counted, as obnoxious as he was.

Fighting was practically bred into her, born snatching scraps of food off a hot pan and squirreling it away within her cupboard so that she would see another day. Thrown into a world that idolized her. Hated her. Yet somehow, still expected her to _fight._

And so she did.

Catherine tore towards them like a whirlwind, blade flashing left and right so quickly it left her stunned. Her speed frightened her, the way she could feel the blood buzzing in her mind as she leapt away from an attack she couldn't see - only the sound of wind on iron tickling at her ear.

She hardly noticed the way in which she could now throw around a cleaver the size of a small dog as if it were nothing but a toy sword, hooks catching on flesh and ripping through bone with but a tug of her arm.

Oh, she was tired, yes, unbearably so.

Fighting was always exhausting. She thought too quickly, moved too frantically. Every step, every flex of the muscle was a blind push, adrenaline forcing one above and beyond anything they would ever be capable of otherwise.

Another man fell beneath her blade, crying out in agony as his pelvis was crushed, guts spilling out onto the dirtied street.

The third waved a torch at her, a makeshift shield fashioned of wood and rusted nails raised in front of his chest.

"Go! Begone foul beast!"

Catherine ignored him, smashing through the shield as if it were paper and burying her cleaver in his chest, the wicked blade poking out of his back and dripping with blood.

WIth a grunt, she ripped it out of his body, splashing herself in red.

She cried out as a bullet passed through her gut, falling to one knee. Panting, she turned to see a woman, trembling as she pointed a crooked rifle at her. The trigger _clicked_ again, but nothing happened, the woman moaning as she fiddled with the hammer, smacking the barrel with an open palm.

Catherine glared at the woman, but found herself rearing back at the sheer _fright_ in her eyes.

She was almost petrified. Whatever affliction that affected the inhabitants of Yharnam barely visible upon her, only a few patches of hair creeping up her neck, just the slightest point to her teeth.

"You're different," Catherine gasped, sickened.

Glancing down at the man whose chest lay bared to the world, she found herself looking away immediately.

She did this.

_She did._

How did she suddenly go from feeling absolute horror, nothing but disgust for the city she had found herself in, to- to... _this?_

Six men dead and her body drenched in blood. Their blood. She could feel it, _taste it._ How thick it was as it clung to the gaps between her fingers, sweet as it pooled in her mouth like spit.

 _The blood? Is it all the blood?_ She thought, remembering the way her body positively _shivered_ as it ran through her veins, how it seemed to warm everything it touched.

 _It's the blood._ _The blood did this. Not me._

"Outsider!" The woman's voice shivered as her body did, thumb flicking at the trigger and trying to pry it unstuck. "You killed them! Killed them!"

"I thought… I thought they were beasts."

_Weren't they?_

Catherine stared into the woman's eyes, unable to pull herself off the ground.

She deserved to die, didn't she? It wouldn't stick, of course, she wouldn't stay dead - not the way those men in the street would, mouths agape and bodies broken.

Closing her eyes and bowing her head, Catherine pressed her face to the stone, unable to bear the sight of those men's bodies. Their eyes, full of blame and fear, an image of her bloodied visage seared upon them.

_I did this._

Swallowing heavily, she ground her forehead against sharp rock. "Do it."

The woman obliged, a joyful whoop leaving her throat as the trigger clicked into place.

Catherine didn't even hear the rifle go off, but she felt the bullet that scattered her brains across the ground.


	4. Chapter Four | The Wolf and the Crow

Catherine woke in the Dream, tears on her face and her body racked with shivers. She sobbed, awful noises pushed out of her throat like vomit, fingers clawing at her belly and spit dribbling from her chin.

_She killed them._

Those broken faces stood out, seared into her mind. How their limbs twitched, hearts laying still in their chests and bared to the cold nights air. The woman, eyes frenzied and hand bashing against her rifle in a desperate attempt to get the monster away.

_Her._

Was it just the blood that she had to blame? A high? Some furious poison rushing through her veins and setting her very soul on fire?

It sang to her, she could hear it still - not in any words that could be spoken by the clumsy mouth of man but instead in a low buzz, resonating in her bones. It was an _urge,_ some intrinsic part of her being twisted and snapped by the power of something she couldn't bear to lay eyes on.

Something in the blood was wrong. It was powerful, so powerful it made her ill, made her want to run to the hills and never look back at the nightmare of coiled stone and raging beasts that made up Yharnam.

But they were still _human._ Just a touch, enough to make her flinch.

"Good hunter, you've returned."

Catherine laughed. "I have."

"Would you like to rest?" the Doll asked, gesturing towards the workshop. "I can put up a bed, if you'd like."

She shook her head. "No, no- I'll… I'm fine. I…" Catherine swallowed, tongue flicking over her lips. "Did you know the beasts down there, in the city… they're human?"

The Doll tilted her head, looking almost quizzical. "Not anymore."

"Aren't they, though? They still feel, they still _fear._ I… I cut them down like they were _nothing._ The blood, is it all like that? A drug?"

"A drug? I wouldn't compare it to such, not exactly." Humming, the Doll's jaw clenched, as if to purse her lips. "There are cocktails, drinks, of course. Somewhat of a vice amongst Yharnamites from what I have heard."

" _Drinks?"_ Catherine whispered, horrified.

"Yes. It seems to be quite popular, particularly when mixed with Yharnam wine or an aged scotch taken from Cainhurst - though - there's not much of it to be found in the city… nor Cainhurst, I imagine."

"I'm guessing Cainhurst is another city?"

"A very magnificent one, full of Lords and Ladies, but I heard they were a fearful group of people."

"How?"

"They were quite cruel, particularly to their servants. The Church went to war with them, and no one has heard from Cainhurst since."

"Sounds like some people I know," Catherine muttered.

"Oh! From your home?"

"Yeah… we've got a lot of old families where I come from. Not really royalty, but about as close as you can come to it." She scratched her neck, hand still trembling. "They're rich, spoiled… well, they're asses, to put it simply. Not all of them, but, a few of the more renowned ones are just awful people to be around."

The Doll sat down in front of her, still looming over Catherine with the two of them on the ground. "That sounds frightful."

"It is what it is. I learned to deal with it just like everyone else has. Doesn't make it any easier that I'm a half-blood, or famous."

"Half-blood?" The Doll seemed to gasp the word, looking a touch fearful.

"My dad was born to a magical family, people where I come from would call him Pureblood. My mum? Both her parents were mundane. Muggles, we call them. So, she's a Muggleborn. Slap the two together," she punctuated her words by clapping. "And any child they have would be called a Half-blood."

"Oh, well- that's quite relieving."

"Relieving?"

"A Half-Blood here in Yharnam refers to the bastard spawn of god and man," the Doll explained in hushed tones. "A new god is what is normally born, but occasionally, something _different_ is. Not many beasts can claim to be as frightening as those carrying the taint of Half-Blood."

"That's… terrifying. There's worse things out there than- "

Catherine choked on her words, flooded with memories of shattered skulls and too much blood.

"Good hun- _Catherine."_ The Doll reached forward tentatively, hand resting on Catherine's knee. "You're hurting."

"Of course I am!" she shouted, smacking the hand away. "I killed those people! _I_ _killed them!_ That's… it's insane! Your fucking blood made me ignore it! I barely noticed as I cut them down, because I was high off- off whatever the hell is in it!"

Standing up, she glared at the Doll. "Whatever it did, you need to _fix it._ Get it out of me, do what you need to get rid of that blood."

"Catherine, I apologize, but nothing can be done. The Blood is a part of you now. You signed the contract, you are bound to the Dream… it cannot be changed. You must end the hunt."

She cursed, raising her hand as if to strike the Doll. "I… I was dying, not even cognizant of what was happening when I signed that damned contract. There has to be a way out of it!"

The Doll stood, shaking her head sadly. "I'm afraid nothing there is nothing that can be done. The gods speak from you as they do all hunters. Even once you conquer the beasts of Yharnam, that will remain the same."

"So I'm cursed? Forever? That's it, that's everything?"

"I… I am sorry, Catherine, but yes. You are a part of the Dream, part of Yharnam, it is irrevocable."

" _Damnit!"_

Catherine did her best not to shove the doll out of the way, pushing up the steps towards the Workshop. She slammed her hands onto the table nearest Gehrman, the man smiling at her.

"What? Already had enough of the beasts?"

"Those aren't beasts down there, they're _people._ You're having me go down there and- and _murder_ just to get out of this nightmare?"

He let out a booming chuckle, hands clasped tightly on the wrist rests of his wheelchair. "People? Girl, Yharnam is ablaze, its citizens turned to mindless, raging creatures that would sooner rip their child's heart out of its chest and feast on it than embrace them. Don't be a fool."

"There has to be some sort of cure, something to fix it! Has anyone even tried?"

"They have, and they failed. You believe the hunt to be something new? Some sort of passing cold that sweeps through the town before burning itself out? It has been near on a hundred years, each worse than the last. By all means, go out, concoct some sort of remedy" He waved towards the door, sneering. "You act as if you may simply solve something our greatest and most powerful couldn't. Tell me, if you would, do you have any knowledge of a plague that turns man to beast with but a drop?"

"Lycanthropy," Catherine interjected. "Wolfsbane is a way, a potion."

"And do you understand how to brew such a thing? Is it a cure? A treatment? Pray tell, of this miracle potion that seems to be the answer to all our needs."

"No- I don't- dammit. There's _options,_ Gehrman. We don't have to go around…"

"Putting down the sick? Yes, we _do._ For every beast you leave breathing an unafflicted Yharnamite will be torn to bits, left out in the city to _rot._ Quit with your idiotic moralism, it won't save any lives."

Fiddling with a set of broken pliers, she clenched her fist, rapping it against the table in frustration. "So this is the only way out. For me to get back home."

"Yes, and if you'd quit your blithering and just _hunt_ you would return that much sooner. Go." he pointed to the door. "Enough with your tantrum. You're a grown woman, do something befitting of your age."

"A grown woman?" she laughed. "Maybe here. I'm still a child back home."

"A child?" Gehrman leaned forward on his cane. "What a curious place you come from. The... _Doll_ spoke to me of it. You have no royalty? No lords or masters?"

"We _choose_ our leaders. We vote. This world of yours is… medieval, three hundred years behind us at best. It's like walking into a history book."

"Really?" Nodding thoughtfully, he tilted his head. "Then surely you must have come across something like this plague in your peoples stories."

"Nothing of the sort. I don't think anyone from my world has seen anything like this before. It's… horrific."

He hummed. "My knowledge of the plague is limited. The Church, on the other hand, they would be more knowledgeable of the origin than any others. Perhaps the scholars at Byrgenwerth..."

"Byrgenwerth?"

"A college, of sorts, at the end of what once was a beautiful forest. I've visited once, the view from Byrgenwerth... overlooking the ocean, it's something to behold. There's a man, an educator, Master Willem - he heads Byrgenwerth. I would speak to him if the Church garners no answers."

"I… thank you, Gehrman." Catherine sighed, feeling a headache building up. "How do I do it? Get used to so much bloodshed?"

"You never become accustomed to it, never truly think of the act as normal," he stated, voice cold. "Those who do, the ones who revel in it - they become the monsters they hunt, and lest you wish to have Crows snapping at your heels you would do well not to love the Blood."

"Then what? I just try not to break down?"

"Yes. That is exactly what you do." Gehrman turned away from her. "Get back to it, otherwise you'll find yourself here for a while longer."

Watching as he left, Catherine's heels scraped against the floorboards.

_Is there really no other way?_

She walked from the Workshop with a heavy heart, ignoring the doll as she knelt before the tombstone.

The light washed over her and she returned to Yharnam.

-::-

Her cleaver sung as it cut through the air, carving ribbons of flesh from the beastman's torso.

She was walking the same path she did but a few hours before, the moon still looming over the city and casting its withering glow across stone and cracked brickwork.

Seemed that day and night worked differently in Yharnam as well.

Heart beating heavy in her chest, she crept overtop a carriage - the same one that woman had hidden behind, rifle glinting dangerously and fury in her eyes.

Peeking over the edge, she could see the same woman sleeping - or, at least resting. Her chin was tucked against her chest, rifle propped up in front of her as her shoulders slowly rose and fell with each breath.

 _Do it,_ she told herself, leaping from the top of the carriage and slamming her blade into the woman's skull.

She couldn't so much as shriek, head cloven in two and her brains spilling out across the pavement.

Retching, Catherine tore the blade away, ignoring how the blood - _her blood -_ sung in her veins, turning her guts into a whirlpool of nausea and regret.

_It's the only way._

The street seemed to clear up as she grew closer to the flames that seemed to dance off the walls surrounding her, bright and terribly eerie.

As she turned around the corner and set sights on the bonfire, she couldn't help but gasp.

A wolf so massive she thought it to be bred with a giant hung from what looked to be a cross, jaw hanging open and blood dripping from its crooked teeth. It was strung up with ropes a handwidth thick, fur wet with grease and singed at the edges. The flames danced at its feet, tough skin burning away to reveal bone and the sharp red of muscle.

She looked on, horrified as a crowd of men wandered in circles around the dead beast, hollering and jeering at its corpse as they waved their torches about.

_That's what can happen to them? To turn into… that?_

Taking the steps up to the right, she shrieked as a man barreled out of the darkness, slicing through her shoulder with a chipped axe.

Catherine could hear the townsfolk behind her muttering in surprise, knew they would soon be after her.

She shot the man through the gut, causing him to stumble forward, clutching at his wound in surprise. Her cleaver snapped forward and sheared through his arm, pulling up and raking its fangs over his jaw and tearing it right off.

He fell to the ground, tongue lolling against his stump neck as he moaned pitifully. Disgusted - whether because of herself or the horrible sight of a man missing half his face - Catherine carved through his throat, blood spraying from the wound.

Ducking out of the way of a pitchfork, Catherine gritted her teeth as a bullet dug its way into her side, looking off over the cleared road to see a man perched atop a carriage, rifle held steady in his hands.

Cutting the legs out from under the pitchfork wielding beast, she jumped away as a woman stumbled towards her, knife swinging wildly as she careened forward.

Catherine howled as another gunshot struck her in the thigh, the back of her head grinding against stone as she rolled backwards, ducking behind a stack of barrels as she snatched a vial off her hip and plunged it into her side.

She let out an involuntary sigh as it worked its way through her, the quiet _ping_ of a bullet striking the ground as it was pushed out of her body by writhing muscle.

Her mind settled, the screaming voice in the back of her head quieted enough that she could focus past her horror and the blood that stained her vision on the creatures in front of her. _Beasts,_ she told herself. The sick and dying, minds long lost and simply waiting to be put down.

A new voice spoke up inside her, one softly droning of blood. It whispered, quietly - seductively - as she tore one of the beasts throats open, crimson splashing over her face. Catherine could barely hear his friends howl, hear the man gurgle as blood poured down his chest in thick waves. All she could see was red as the ichor of the Church flooded her veins and pushed her into a frenzy.

The next bullet that came screaming her way crashed against the home behind her as she wove down, slicing one of the men in half with two quick pulls of her cleaver. She flicked the blade, splashing blood across the stone as it snapped into place, the inertia carrying it up and into the groin of the next beast. Pulling, she dragged it through his pelvis and out his waist, watching out of the corner of her eye as he toppled to the ground in pieces.

Dashing down the stairs, Catherine kicked at a dog that stampeded towards her, its head jerking to the side. The creature snarled, flecks of drool flying from its mouth as it snapped at her ankles. It shrieked, high and wild as she smashed its flank with the butt-end of her cleaver. Hissing, Catherine fired a shot into its head, jumping to the side once more as the man atop the carriage raised his rifle and fired.

Dust shot up from the impact, peppering her calves in tiny bits of stone. Catherine tucked her pistol away and leapt at the carriage, feet kicking at the moldy seats and fingers scraping along wood as she hoisted herself up, snatching blindly at the riflemans ankles.

He fell with a scream, weapon forgotten as he attempted to scratch at her hands, his own covered in fur and pointed into claws.

Catherine ignored the pain as he split her hand down the middle, fingers splayed out like the tentacles of a squid. She raised her cleaver, grip slipping on the handle as she tried to drive it into his chest.

The flat end cracked against his ribs and she could feel them snap underneath, another howl screaming out of the man's throat.

Again-

She smashed the flat end of the blade against his face, a spurt of blood shooting from his ears and dribbling across the carriage top. Pulling back, she took a great, heaving breath, giving herself a moment to look out at the carnage she had wrought.

Corpses lay strewn out across the road in varying states of dismemberment. Some were missing arms, some legs. Others were frozen in their death throes, fingers scrabbling at thick ropes of intestine and eyes wide with terror.

Spitting out a glob of blood, she snatched another vial and pressed it against her side, sighing loudly as her wounds began to knit shut.

Her hand twitched, skin pulling together like a zipper - but not quite.

 _Huh,_ Catherine wondered, looking down at her belt to see only one vial left. _That's not good._

She wondered for a moment if she should leave her hand maimed as it was before thinking better of it.

Her gun was useful, incredibly so - and, she could always find more vials.

Taking the last one, Catherine nearly moaned as she let another jolt of blood flood her body, skin tingling - electric - as it filled her veins.

Footsteps sounded from her right, and she looked up to see a man dressed in what looked to be black preachers clothes, a large axe held in one hand and a pistol in the other.

She grit her teeth, blade raised. "You a beast?"

The man laughed, throwing his head back and revealing bandages that wrapped around his eyes.

_Like the Minister._

"A hunter, lass. Calm yourself." He strode forward, whistling as he admired her handiwork. "Impressive, though, you seem to be new blood. Tell me, huntress, how did an outsider like you come to wield a blade of the workshop?"

Catherine patted the weapon, hand tracing over the handle. "I was given it."

Sniffing the air, the man hummed quietly. "The moon is upon you. Its scent clings to your clothes. A dreamer, eh?"

"You know of it?"

"Only tales. There is a hunter you may wish to find, a Crow named Eileen. She could tell you more of it."

"I keep hearing that word - Crow. What does it mean?"

"A hunter of hunters." The man's voice seemed to take on a dour tone, almost bitter. "They end the blood-drunk, lest they tear this whole city apart in their thirst."

Catherine found herself chuckling. "This city is already torn apart."

"Aye, and a long night this is shaping up to be."

Cryptic.

She eyed his clothing warily. Preachers garb. Was he with the Church?

"Eileen. Where can I find her?"

He pointed his axe eastward, down into the earth. "Last I heard she was looking for a hunter round the aqueduct. She may have stopped to rest in her search... a lot gets lost down there. People, most of all."

"Thank you…"

"Gascoigne," he stated, giving her a clumsy bow. "Would you like me to take you there? Seems you've already done the work I intended in this part of the city."

"I'm Catherine - Cat - for short… and, if it's not too much trouble." She scratched at her empty belt. "You wouldn't happen to know where to find more vials, would you?"

"Ah." Gascoigne strode forward, kneeling down to pick at the clothes of the dead man beneath Catherine. "But they're right here, aren't they?"

He began to strip the corpse, rifling through pockets and flipping the body when no more served to be found. Gascoigne handed the vials to her as she watched dumbly at the way in which he so casually desecrated the dead man, head smashed to bits and his blood dripping over the carriage ceiling.

"Take them."

Catherine snatched the vials from his hands, fastening them to her belt with hurried motions. "You… you loot bodies here?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

"It's- it's not right," she stuttered, removing herself from the carriage top and climbing onto the upper street.

Gascoigne seemed to glare at her through his blindfold. "Nothing is right in Yharnam, and if you wish to survive - dreamer or not - you would do well to learn our ways."

"I can't imagine this is how the entire city behaves."

"Not quite _our_ ways," he clarified, gesturing to the shuttered windows and barred doors. "The _hunters'_ ways."

"So it's not… immoral?"

"Immoral?" He cackled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "There are no laws here in Yharnam, not anymore. Especially not on a night like this. You have a lot to learn if you wish to end this hunt with your sanity intact."

"I don't think I will…" Catherine looked out upon the sea of gore, spilt by her hand. "I think I've lost it already."

Gascoigne patted her on the back, causing her to cough loudly. "If you've wondered about your sanity that means some still remains. Deep breaths, huntress. Let's find you your Crow."

Following him through the streets, Catherine looked on at the corpses that Gascoigne had left in his wake.

More dogs, beastmen, their chests torn open and skulls shattered from heavy axe swings. One of the dead men was massive, nearly eight feet tall and wide all over. His head looked as if it had been crushed, misshapen and pocked with sores. Its hand was held tight around a brick, trapped in the rictus of death.

"Do you happen to have trolls in this city?" Catherine wondered, trying to look away from the corpse.

"Trolls? No such thing in Yharnam, though, I assume you're speaking about him?"

She hummed.

"The scourge affects all in different ways. Some turn to wolves, unmistakable in their beasthood. Others? They grow larger, stronger, more wicked than even the wolves that prowl these streets."

"How could _that_ be more wicked than a wolf?"

"Their minds, addled as they are, are still their own." He kicked an arm out of the way, leading her up the path. "They have cruel wants, taking pleasure in torture and other unseemly acts. Upon the last hunt I witnessed one of them playing with a woman's head, kicking it about as if for sport, laughing all the while."

"Oh."

All this city could do was steal, she realized. Steal life, steal livelihood, steal sanity. It was built to take, something about it so intrinsically wrong it made her want to shout at the sky, rage against the heavens and tear the curtain down to reveal the hideous nightmares it was hiding.

They cut down any stragglers as they wandered through the city. Up stairs, down stairs, ladders hidden in the most unlikely of places.

A bit of fear cemented itself in her mind as she watched Gascoigne cut down a wolf with three clean strikes of his axe, a grin on his face so terrible that for a moment she thought him to be blood-drunk, bathing himself in the crimson stain of these profaned beasts.

She helped, of course, leaping in from behind and taking the legs out from under one of the creatures, two pistol shots through the gut ending it's pitiful life.

The macabre was slowly growing on her - like a tumour - tendrils of rot snaking its way through her body and gripping so tight she could feel her chest ache. Blood seemed to soak through the thick cloth she wore, rough against her skin and much too warm.

Yharnam, she was beginning to notice, was in a much worse state than she first thought it to be.

Its streets were crumbling, close to ruin. Fires smouldered in the corners of alleys, rats the size of dogs scurrying about in the darkness and peeking out at her, bodies covered in pustules and pupils splashed across their eyes like spilled ink.

The beasts eyes were the same, like they had been struck and their eyes had burst - but not fully - somehow trapped between thin strips of gelatinous flesh.

This whole city bore scars, so deep they may never heal. She was terrified to see the rest of it.

Slowly, a stench began to fill her nose, that of fetid flesh and the stink of faeces - mingled together in some sort of wretched perfume that seemed to smother her in its intensity.

"Oh god." She coughed, holding her arm against her nose. "It's open to the air?"

"It's a sewer, of course it is," Gascoigne chided, wiping his axe off on a corpse beneath him. "It travels deep below the city, a good distance away from any well or drinking water."

"Doesn't matter much if it's open to the air. Fuck, you sure this isn't the source of the plague?" Catherine peered down into the sewer, grimacing. "I'm astonished you don't all have cholera."

"Cholera?"

"A disease. Awful way to die. It's what happens when you have open sewage all over the goddamn place - although, at least you have a sewage system. Better than throwing shit out your window."

"Ah." He chuckled, directing Catherine towards a large building leading in toward the sewers. "We've arrived. I wish you the best of luck, huntress, but I must be off." Gascoigne pointed towards the bridge, Cathedral ward looming high above. "My wife and children await me."

_Oh._

"You're a father?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He adjusted his cap, an air of smugness washing over him. "What, does a man as handsome as myself look like he would never take a bride?"

"No, I just… didn't really think about hunters having families to return to. Job doesn't seem like it has much in the way of life expectancy."

Laughing loudly, Gascoigne squeezed her shoulder, Catherine flinching at his bloodied touch. "Take care of yourself, and remember - Praise the Good Blood."

She watched as he left, axe swaying and a whistled tune pouring from his lips, striding into the depths of the city and off towards his family.

A family, huh? And praise the Good Blood, what did that mean? Gascoigne had spoken it as if a mantra, some holy scripture to be idolized.

 _Shit._ He was definitely a member of the Church.

What was that, that Gilbert had said? Not to trust them? He seemed nice, at least, far nicer than any of the creatures she had come across so far. Although, that wasn't the best metric to work from considering nearly everything she'd come across in her short time in Yharnam had tried to kill her.

Shuddering at the memory of her own death (pain, so much pain - teeth nipping at her spine and blood pouring down her back in waves) Catherine slowly tread into the building that seemed to house an entrance to the sewer system.

The stench was horrid, so thick that she wished she had something to cover her nose with _-_ plugs even - as uncomfortable as they would be. There was a stack of crates and barrels lined up against the far wall, but a few of them had been recently overturned, the layer of filth that coated the ground noticeably thinner, marked with round indentations whose glistening corners caught the dim light.

Deciding to hedge her bets on that - seeing as no beast would take the time to move the crates, rather than smash them to pieces - Catherine stepped over the windowsill and onto a set of thick rafters, stretching out across the building and-

"Shit," she muttered, lips peeling back into a scowl. "They've hung bodies around the goddamn place."

Corpses were strung up by their feet, hanging over the open gap leading down into the sewer. She warily eyed the coffins propped up against the walls, lids shuttered tight with locks and chains.

Wet marks… no, footsteps lead off to the right. Human footsteps, along with the sharp tinge of incense slowly wafting through another open window, a thin trail of silvery smoke lapping at the edges.

_That's gotta' be it._

Catherine stepped over the rafters wearily, each footfall creaking loudly and leaving her wondering if she'd fall to her death.

Probably not the worst way to go, considering the other ways in which she had been killed.

The incense stung her nose as she circled around yet more barrels and crates, finding herself outside the building in some sort of open-air storage area. She cracked the top of one of the crates with her cleaver, opening it to find it packed full of empty vials.

 _Makes sense,_ she thought, opening another to find even more vials, a barrel topped full with rancid ale and other crates containing rotten fruit, the stench unplaceable among the festering stink of the sewer below.

Peeking around the corner, Catherine spotted a person in what looked to be an overly complicated plague doctor's uniform, mask curving into a long beak and their coat laced with strips of pointed cloth that hung silently like feathers.

"Eileen?"

The Crow turned, weapons in hand before Catherine could so much as blink. "Who wants to know?"

"Uh- that'd be me," she said, walking out from behind the stack of crates, waving awkwardly. "I was told you could answer some of my questions."

Eileen sniffed the air, head bobbing. "Oh, a hunter, are ya?" she paused, eyeing Catherine through the mask. "An outsider too. What a mess you've been caught up in. And tonight, of all nights."

"Yeah. It's… something else, alright. A man called Gascoigne said you could answer questions I had, about the Dream."

"A dreamer… haven't met one of you in a while. What would you like to know? My memory of it is nigh non-existent, something about leaving the Dream - it seems to scramble your mind, take your thoughts and lock them away."

"So, you don't remember a thing?"

"Only the Doll and Gehrman. The man's been dead for near eighty years… I guess some part of him lives on." Eileen sighed, putting her weapons away and leaning against a fence behind her. "Something greater is at work. I don't prescribe to the Churches fanaticism - Blood this, Oedon that - but you should prepare yourself for the worst. There are no humans left in this city. They're all flesh hungry beasts, now."

Scratching the back of her neck, Catherine's shoulders dropped. "Guess there's not much to know about the Dream then? Why I'm here?"

"Did you not come to Yharnam for healing? For work?"

"No. I just went to bed one night and woke up here. There's a creature, something that…" Catherine bit her lip. "I don't know what it is, but it brought me to Yharnam. It wants something from me. Paleblood is all I know, apparently I have to find it."

"Paleblood? Now, that's not a word often heard. I'm sure you've been told already, but the Church would be the ones to know."

"Well, thanks. It was good to meet you."

Laughing, Eileen shook her head. "Wasn't a problem. Now, stop lingering about. You're a dreamer, go out and find your Paleblood. A hunter must hunt."

"A hunter must hunt… did you get that from the Doll, or her from you?"

"The Doll says that? Well, you'd have to ask her. I can't remember for the life of me."

"I'll ask her the next time I… well, you know."

Eileen huffed. "Enough quivering in your boots. You've got beasts to kill, huntress. You should be off."

"Thank you, Eileen. I… maybe I'll see you around."

"You don't want me following you. That means something has gone terribly wrong."

"True. Hunter of hunters, right?"

"Aye. I keep these streets clean. Worse enough that we've got beasts running about, rather that than someone with their wits - broken as they are." Her mocking tone turned serious, eyes locked upon Catherine's from behind her mask. A steel gray, harsh and uninviting. "Fear the Old Blood, lest you find yourself at the end of my blade."

_She does not lie, the woman of feathers and blood. Her words - harsh, but true - speak of the illness of hunters. A nightmare borne of their own hands, twisted cities and a crimson river. Fear it, child. Fear the blood of mine people, unless thou wish to follow in the footsteps of Byrgenwerth. A curse by my own wrath, no mercy to be found._

Catherine flinched, eyes flickering shut as she turned away the voice. She glanced back towards the window, ignoring Eileen's pointed stare.

"I'll be off… I've got a sewer to explore."

Cathedral Ward may have been the goal, but something was sitting in the back of her mind, pointing and urging her towards the sewers.

' _A lot gets lost down there,'_ Gascoigne had said. She hoped to find something of use.

"Take care, huntress. Don't get lost."

She laughed quietly, waving goodbye to Eileen. "I'll try my best."


	5. Chapter Five | Church Bells Ringing

The sewers, Catherine found, were nightmarish.

Beasts so far gone they resembled wolf more than man walked along the parapets that looked down into the aqueduct, holding spears of twisted metal, broken pitchforks, and what looked to be an oversized gardening rake covered in crooked spikes.

She found armor down there, or at least, something much closer to armor than the ragged clothes she currently wore.

A facemask built into a torn tricorne, jacket and coat padded with leather and thin steel plates woven into the fabric. Catherine stripped it off a corpse, bile in her throat and hands shaking as she removed each and every article of clothing she could off the dead man, the sturdy boots a touch loose around her toes.

Try as she might, she couldn’t help but shudder at the idea of wearing clothes stolen off a corpse, cinched around her body with too many belts and coated in a thin layer of slime and human shit, mixed together with the gelatinous run off of still-crawling corpses that screamed out at her from the dark.

There were creatures in the depths, broken at the waist and laying in puddles of filth, their bodies caked in an acrid brown and clawed hands flailing as they tried to crawl towards her, moaning all the while.

Whether out of agony or the same deep-seated rage that seemed to infect everything in the city she didn’t know, but she did try her best to put them out of their misery.

A spear was among the tools she had found down there, curved wickedly and covered in teeth all round the blade. It was lighter and longer than her cleaver, better suited to fighting at range than dead on, though it tore through flesh and bone just the same as its cousin. She found it more useful, snapping out into a point when the switch was flicked, able to stab and corral any beasts that came lunging her way.

The crows though, those were what made her blood run cold.

Large as dogs and roosting among the joists that ran between the canals, their blackened, oily feathers mingling with the shadows and immutable even once they’d fallen down from above, the dim light of the torches casting itself over their bodies.

They barked and snarled, beaks snapping as they crawled and flapped towards her on wings dotted with blood. She struck them down, anger and revulsion coursing through her in equal parts as she shore them in half, their dog-like growls echoing off the sewer walls and disappearing into the city above.

And then she saw the pig.

It couldn’t really be called such a thing, considering it was the size of a lorry, teeth sharpened into points and body covered in large blisters filled with white pus, frenzied growls pouring from its throat as it charged towards her.

She panicked, really, it seemed the only thing to do when confronted by something so hideous - sprinting out of the corridor and paying no heed to the filth splashing over her clothes as she dashed up a nearby ladder, swinging herself up its length as quickly as she could.

Her lungs burned as she hoisted herself over the ledge, casting a glance down the ladder to see the pig gnashing and screaming at her from below, hooves scratching at stone and blood dribbling down its face as it mashed itself against the wall.

“Jesus christ,” she groaned, laying flat on her back and staring up at the sky.  _ That was awful. _

Reaching down to her waist, she took the stopper off a vial and jabbed it into her thigh. Though no wound bothered her, her mind couldn’t settle - racing terribly and filled with thoughts of throwing herself down to the creatures below, smashing her skull against the ground and scattering her soul into the lake of filth.

Crawling through the sewers had led to her death a few times, opening her eyes to the Dream and the Doll looming over her, throat thick with sickness and limbs shaking.

The sooner she was out of this nightmare, the better.

Rifling through her pockets, she drew out a sharp red stone - one of many that she’d found - deeper in colour than any ruby she had ever seen and almost fibrous, a lattice of a pink so pale it seemed gray laced across it in dizzying patterns.

It must have been native to whatever world she found herself in, never having seen nor heard of such a gem before. Hopefully it was useful, she’d have to ask the Doll.

Drawing herself up, Catherine heard the low growls of dogs (or crows, she thought) around the corner, looking over to see the birds huddled together around a glowing skull, soft wisps of white light trickling from the eye sockets.

Curious, she ran forward, cutting down the crows without too much trouble, before stooping forward to pick up the skull. As soon as her hands touched the thing she shrieked in fright, something she couldn’t see slithering out of it and over hand, leaving a trail of slime in its wake.

Panicking, she crushed the skull in her grasp, the bone so fragile that it snapped like eggshells, the light within rushing into her palm and cooling the skin it touched. Catherine waved her hand about, eyeing the glow with trepidation.

“What the hell?” she asked, watching as the light dimmed.

_What was that?_ _What was in there?_

She wiped her hand off on her coat, reminding herself to not pick up things just because they glow.

_ Could have died there. Again. _

Turning, Catherine crossed the short bridge connecting this level of homes to the next, fear settling in her gut as she saw one of the giants bashing his hands against a door, shouting loudly.

His muscles rippled with each strike, the door shuddering as his brick chipped at its face, revealing a thick layer of reinforced steel lining the inside of it.

_ Makes sense, _ she thought, fiddling with her blade and wondering whether she should attack or skirt around him quietly, climbing up the ladder to his right.  _ How else would people manage to keep the beasts out? _

Not wanting to take the chance of having the man break through and kill whoever was living there Catherine tread forward as quietly as she could, hand clenching around the haft of her spear - the cleaver tied snugly to her back.

She lashed out without a noise, the spear pushing through the creatures back and out his chest, ribs snapping loudly as it roared.

Her arm cracked as it whipped around, a pained gasp escaping her, forearm twisted and pointed outward as if she had a second elbow.

Jumping out of reach, she fired off a shot with her pistol before tossing the weapon aside, a blood vial plunging into her flank as she ducked underneath a swipe of the monster's arms, a blanket-wrapped corpse in its grasp.

_ God, it’s using them as a weapon. _

Catherine hissed as her arm snapped back into place, rolling aside as the giant bashed the corpse against the ground, blood and dust scattering across the stone. She snatched up her pistol, raising it and firing a shot into the creature's throat, red splashing outwards as it dropped the corpse, hand slapping against its neck.

Lunging, she raked the teeth of her spear across its belly, guts spilling out onto the ground in a wretched heap. It still came at her, tripping on its own innards as it stumbled forward, hands outstretched and grasping feebly.

Blade flashing, she jumped, plunging sharp steel into its chest and sending the beast falling backwards, her feet planted firmly inside its belly and scraping at its spine. Her ankles grew warm, the leather lining of her pants keeping the viscera from soaking into her calves.

Raising the spear, she stabbed it into its throat. Again - again - again - its head detaching from its body and rolling across the stone, a shining trail of blood marking its travels.

Cursing loudly, Catherine climbed out of its body and kicked her feet against the ground, flecks of blood and torn sinew stubbornly clinging to her ankles. “Fucks sake.” She put her spear away, taking out her cleaver and scraping the flat end against the gore, managing to remove some of it before giving up entirely, telling herself she’d find a river or the like to wash her clothes in as soon as she had the chance.

That, or she’d throw herself off a cliff, seeing as her clothes always seemed to come back fresh after returning to the Dream.

Scars, though, remained - and she seemed to find a new one every time she died. A mess of lines across her back where the wolf in front of the Clinic had torn her to pieces. Thick knots on her shoulders where she’d been set aflame after being doused in oil, the villagers jeering loudly while she choked to death on the fumes of her own burning skin.

Too many to count, and she’d only been here a little longer than a week.

Catherine stumbled to the door, rapping on it loudly. “It’s dead, the beast. You’re safe now.”

A woman's voice cackled out from inside. “Safe? No such thing as safe in Yharnam dearie. You’d do well to know that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Get gone, outsider, I can smell you from here.”

“Heard that before,” she muttered, hands snatching at the ladder and raising her up to the next level which was, thankfully, barely ten feet above.

The locals… Catherine found herself hating them more than the beasts that walked their streets. Vile people, prejudiced and foul in their words.

_ Not one bit of thanks for saving their ungrateful arses. I should leave them to the beasts. _

Climbing over the edge, she snatched at yet another lever, the locked gate in front of her swinging open. “What a bitch.”

“I wouldn’t say such a thing,” another voice spoke, familiar.

Catherine looked to the side, seeing Gascoigne peeking out of the window. “Hey. This your place?”

He laughed, head gesturing down. “Aye, and pay her no mind. She’s a fright of a woman.”

“Everyone here seems to be like that. I had an old woman tell me to leave the city and ‘go back to where I came from.’ Only heard that from my cousins.”

“Well, Yharnamites seem to be a fickle bunch.” He scratched at his beard, guise warped through the thick glass. “I’m soon to be off for the hunt, would you like me to come with you?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” Catherine waved him off, remembering the glee he had shown when cutting down the beasts that lurked in the city.

If anyone was to lose their mind, she feared it was him.

“Thought I’d offer, but probably best for you to become better accustomed to all the wonders Yharnam has to show.” He barked out another sharp laugh. “Best of luck, huntress.”

“You too,” Catherine said, giving him a dry salute as she left towards the heart of the city.

It was time to cross that damned bridge.

Catherine had seen all types of beasts roaming it. Wolves, giants, maddened peasants with torches glimmering above their heads.

She would be lying if she said she was confident in crossing it, finding herself dead at the grasping hands of unseen creatures in the muck more times than she could count. The wolves were sure to be a challenge, the last and only one she’d fought being so close to death it seemed a joke to kill.

But first, she’d like to return to the Doll, to see if she could garner more power from it.

There was something about her, the Doll had said, in her blood and the way it mingled with the creatures of Yharnam. All hunters drew strength from the blood, taking in the creatures essence like warriors of old believed - feasting on the hearts of their enemies and drawing in their very life.

Catherine, though, was different.

Perhaps it was something to do with her magic, latching out and stealing from the beasts she slew. Blood magic, she assumed, knowing there was good reason the practice was banned with prejudice in her world.

She wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, wasn’t entirely pleased with it, but it helped her survive and that was all that mattered. Hell, she was disgusted if she was being entirely honest, but the rules of Magical Britain didn’t apply in Yharnam. None did.

Almost errantly, she cut down the beasts in her path, trudging past the now smouldering pyre - only bones hanging from its length and the wood soon to crumble - toward the lantern that she knew to rest but a few minutes away.

Soon enough she came to it, unable to hide the smirk on her face as the Messengers eagerly reached to her, their mouths (if they had any) held wide in a facsimile of a grin.

She let them grasp at her clothes, light drowning her vision as she was taken to the Dream.

The Doll was already waiting for her as her surroundings shifted from spires to gravestones, offering a quaint bow as Catherine rose to her feet.

“Welcome back.”

“Hey.” Catherine walked over to her. “I think I’m ready to try heading into Cathedral Ward.”

“How exciting! Please, if you would allow me to help?” the Doll asked, extending her hand.

Catherine took it, trying not to flinch at the strange warmth the porcelain gave off, somehow yielding beneath her touch.

Closing her eyes, she felt as warmth flooded her body, muscles tightening and her chest filling with air as she took a deep breath. It was as if her synapses had been set alight, firing so quickly that her vision shone with stars and every fibre of cloth lining the Dolls clothes stood out in sharp relief against the glass of her skin.

Her hands clenched, teeth vibrating in her skull as Catherine pulled away. “Shite,” she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That was… wow.”

The Doll placed her hand on Catherine’s shoulder, looking her in the eyes. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine, just… I must have been down there a while, wasn’t I?”

“A full day, I believe.”

Blinking dizzily, she shook her head. “A whole day? But I never- I haven’t eaten or slept the whole time I’ve been here.”

“Food is no matter for a hunter of the dream, but sleep…” the Doll trailed off, concern in her voice. “You haven’t rested?”

“No, not once. I- could it be the blood?”

She’d developed a bit of a… dependency for the blood, as of late. It kept her mind quiet, stopped her from thinking too much as she set sight on creatures that should not,  _ could not _ exist. Catherine thought it necessary if she wanted to leave this nightmare in one piece, to come out of it with her mind somewhat intact.

If only Dumbledore could see her now.

A laugh slipped from her lips, imagining the horror on the man's face. He would blame himself, she imagined. When she returned… would she tell him? Would she have the heart to regale Dumbledore of what she had seen? A city that left its inhabitants broken, inhuman and thirsting for blood?

Her mind wandered to images of Ron and Hermione. They wouldn’t be able to understand what she had done, what she had to do. “Dark Magic, isn’t it?” they’d say, terrified at the prospect of her feeding off the essence of the creatures she had slain.

Catherine thought Snape of all people would understand, foul man that he was. He had seen things, she knew, committed terrible things to gain that mark upon his arm. There wasn’t an alternative with Voldemort and nothing short of blood and ash could usher in a gift such as that.

“It’s doubtful. The blood does not take away the need for sleep.”

But somehow, it did for  _ her. _

Maybe it was her magic, again, taking from those she killed. Was it doing the same for the blood she let slip through her veins? Lapping up every last drop until nothing remained but the feeble moans of her dying mind?

There was something about feeling powerful that spoke to her. For once in her life she felt like she could move forward without hindrance. No death of the body could claim her, only that of the mind. That… that, she feared. Guts quivering and eyes pricked sharp with tears as she studied the way the people of Yharnam had lost their battle with what little shreds of sanity they retained.

But had she not lost her mind a long time ago? Killing a man before she had even truly understood the world she had been tossed into? Fighting for her life when she didn’t yet know what she wanted to live for?

Cedric had died before he even had a chance to blink. No fear - only surprise on his face as he was struck down by the stain upon humanity that called itself Voldemort.

People didn’t question it. They didn’t even stop to  _ ask _ what happened. No, they made up their minds before his body had begun to cool, naming a girl of but fourteen to be delirious - a liar - broken barely four-hundred days into her newfound existence when that green light deigned to grace her brow.

“Does it matter?”

The Doll looked unsure, porcelain fingers awkwardly working their way over one another, clicking quietly as they shifted. “I…”

“You can speak freely.”

“I know humans. You need to sleep, you cannot function without it. I’ve yet to meet a hunter who does not sleep, not with eagerness in their heart.”

“And how many hunters have you met?”

Arms spread wide, the Doll gestured all around, glassy eyes passing over each and every crooked tombstone. “Enough to fill this Dream.”

A shudder ran its way down Catherines spine. “I’ll die here?”

“In a way, yes.”

“No.” She snatched the Dolls arm, grip harsh around her wrist. “Don’t speak in riddles. Tell me what you mean.  _ Will I die here?” _

The Doll regarded her impassively, a barely curious glance cast down towards her creaking arm. “Only in the Dream. Not beyond it, not in Yharnam.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What? I just die here? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Hurt me all you’d like, Catherine. I will simply return.”

She reared back, knuckles cracking as she yanked her hand away. “Hurt you?”

“Was that not what you just did?” Rolling her wrist, the Doll cocked her head to the side. “Hurt me?”

Jaw flexing, Catherine looked away. “I…”

“It is no trouble, Catherine. I am but a Doll. All my knowledge of your world comes from the hunters who have walked this garden. Some have harmed me, yet, I bear no ill will towards them.” A strained smile forced its way across her face, hidden screws spinning and hinges snapping into place as her lips quirked. “I love them, how can I not?”

“I can’t- ” Catherine’s breath caught heavy in her throat, the Dolls words saccharine yet somehow dead before they even left her ceramic lungs. “How can you say something like that?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Her words were quizzical, painfully so.

“You can’t… they hurt _you._ _I hurt you._ How- that’s just… no, I’m sorry.” She blinked hurriedly, arms trembling. “I have to go.”

“Catherine?”

Walking past the Doll, Catherine shook her hands out as if they were cursed. She ignored the being as she mashed her open palm against the gravestone, bringing herself back to Yharnam in a rush of light.

Rushing down the steps and past Gilberts window, Catherine jabbed her spear through the back of a waiting Yharnamite, the man screaming hoarsely as his blood spilled across his chest.

Her hands stung, the warm and unnatural sensation of the Dolls wrist still ghosting across her fingertips as she marched towards the bridge, cutting down everything in her path. She let the blood spatter her face, let it run down the cloth of her mask as she carved through a small house.

An old man lying almost prone in a wheelchair shot her through the gut, Catherine swearing loudly as she pressed a blood vial to her flank, slicing his throat open and snatching a handful of silvery bullets off his lap.

Veins humming, Catherine stuffed the bullets into the bag hanging off her waist, working her way up the stairs and past two more beasts, laying open their bellies before they could so much as ready their weapons.

_ I hurt her. _

A roar from behind and Catherine spun around, jumping aside as a wolf - one of the two she had seen from on high - charged at her. Breath hissing through her teeth, she ran her spear along the monster's flank, ducking out of the way of another slash before kicking at its side, the wolf squealing as she followed with a thrust.

The spear parted its ribs and sloughed through soft flesh, thick ribbons of blood dripping from the open wound and splashing across the ground. It keened lowly as she yanked the blade out of its body, bone chipping and peppering her chest. Leaping on top of the monster, instinct drove her forward, hand plunging through the wound and wrapping around its heart.

Fury on her lips, she ripped the organ from its chest with a triumphant cry, tossing the slippery thing away as the wolf gasped its last breath, claws dug into the stone and chips of rubble sticking to its greasy fur.

Panting, Catherine snatched a vial off her belt, regarding it for just a moment before putting it back.

Her brain was slick with bloodlust, with anger - be it at herself or the monsters, she couldn’t quite tell - but it filled her body and set her muscles alight, every fibre of her being tensed and ready for but a whisper of beasts.

She looked ahead to a murder of barking crows that surrounded one of the troll-men, its bellow echoing off into the city beyond as it noticed her.

It charged forward, Catherine twisting aside as it smashed its handful of masonry into the ground, a cloud of dust bursting upwards and clinging to her glasses, heavy breath fogging them even more.

She howled as it smashed the brick against her shoulder, the low crack of shattered bone accompanying her flight towards the low stone columns lining the bridge.

Her lungs emptied as she struck the barrier, blood dripping down her lips and soaking into her mask. Scrabbling, she rolled aside as the giant charged again, a whoop escaping her as it smashed through the columns and fell screaming to the rooftops below.

_ Lucky, _ she told herself, tears in her eyes as she pressed a blood vial to her side, her broken shoulder quivering as it pulled itself back together.

_ There is no such thing as luck. It is but a kindness of the Cosmos, a One above all. Thine existence, Child, is that of amusement - fantasy and folly to be watched idly as it lays its seed among this city. _

“Fuck off,” Catherine growled, shaking her head. She bit her tongue against the voice, ignoring its cloying whispers as she snatched one of the crows out of the air, its throat crushed beneath her grip.

_ I only hope to guide thy hand. _

Snarling wordlessly, Catherine ground one of the crows skulls beneath her boot, walking the clear path towards the end of the bridge with murder in her mind.

She would find someone important of the Church and force the answers out of them. Snape didn’t always use his wand when entering her mind, she was sure she could find a way to do the same. There would be no kindness for them, not if they were the cause of this plague.

As Catherine grew closer to the massive gates, a piercing wail rang out from the ward beyond. It was hideous, high pitched and so grating she could feel blood trickle from her ears. Grinding stone echoed from behind it, heavy footfalls of a creature large enough to shake the very ground she stood on.

A blur of movement accompanied the next screech, a beast the size of a house leaping over the wall and crashing against the bridge - claws as long as her torso shrill and awful as they dragged across the stone.

Its head was antlered, the bones twisted up and down in seemingly random directions - some snapped off at the hilt and bleeding from cracked stumps, the others patched with velvet that seemed rotten, frayed edges tinged with pus. The creature howled again, ribs sharp against tightly-drawn skin as it raised its head to the night sky.

Oh, how awful it was.

Catherine’s very being seemed to tremble at the sight, her mind unravelling as it tried to drink in the antithesis of sanity that cast its shadow across the smouldering bridge. Her eyes stung, tears falling in a thin river only to be swallowed up by her blood spattered mask.

_ Do not close thine eyes. Let thy mind be freed, unfettered by paltry notions of right and wrong - what can and cannot be. This is but a taste. _

It killed her in an instant.

She felt herself go flying, only for a brief moment, to watch as her body collapsed behind her - blood spurting from the empty stump that was her neck.

The light of the Dream filled her up as she reappeared in the graveyard, marching past the flustered Doll and returning to Yharnam.

This time, she charged, working her way back to the bridge with her spear in hand - pistol held loosely in the other and the wooden grip damp with sweat. The beast - whatever it was - seemed to be lapping idly at the small puddle of blood where she had just died, nostrils flaring as she grew closer.

It almost looked surprised to see her, some remnant of whatever human it used to be glancing furtively between her and the pool it had been drinking from, muzzle stained a deep red.

She didn’t give it a chance to blink, pistol snapping as a shot was fired into its collar, the beast screaming, the long ragged fur along its arm swinging as it pressed its hand to the wound.

Catherine could hardly grunt as it tried to grab her, jumping out of the way with hurried breaths and burning lungs. She returned the gesture, taking off two fingers with a jab - the long teeth of her spear dragging through flesh and bone as if it were naught but water.

Another lunge and she ducked, the creature’s massive hand whistling through the air and buffeting her - the strength of it so much that she almost fell over.

Cursing loudly, she fired another shot, this time the bullet striking true and grazing over its muzzle before being buried in the thick bone of its brow. It fell forward, hands held over its face as it moaned loudly, the sound still terribly high and heavy as though needles were being pressed into her ears.

Her blade flicked into place and she attempted to bury it in the monster's brain, plunging into its jaw from below. That only served to anger the thing, spear trapped in the base of its skull and her grip drowned in the steady stream of blood that poured down the matted steel.

She had no choice but to let go of the weapon, still not quick enough for the claws that tore through her chest and plucked out a slab of one of her lungs as if it were a snack pincushioned upon a toothpick.

Falling backwards, she feebly drew at one of her vials, hands shaking and body growing colder as she slammed it into her thigh.

It wasn’t enough, and the beast was growing bored with its new treat, tonguing at the chunk of offal speared onto its claw.

Desperate, she unscrewed one of the vials and tore her mask away, tipping it down her throat. She almost choked on how sweet it was. It tasted incredible - warm chocolate and rich spices danced across her tongue, dripped from her chin, her chest straining painfully as lungs re-grew and bones knit back together.

_ Much more effective, _ Catherine thought, dragging herself to her feet just as the beast lunged again.

She felt empowered,  _ raw. _ Her mind seemed to snap into place, no longer stymied by the sight of such a horrific creature and instead focused on one thing: the hunt.

Her roar matched its own, frenzied and defiant. She would  _ win. _

Heart pounding, she sprinted towards the monster, slipping underneath a frantic swing and stepping beneath its legs. She jumped, snatching at her blade and yanking it out as she fell back to the ground - the metal dragging through its jaw and down its throat with a horrific squeal, grinding against bone and tight sinew.

Blood showered down on her from above, painting her in the sweet warmth of its embrace. Some flitted over her tongue, bright and powerful,  _ delicious. _

She could taste upon its blood what this thing used to be: a Cleric, minister of the Church and one focused on none else but tightening his own grip on the people of Yharnam. He took pleasure in how they depended on him, on the ichor of the Church. His addiction to it was strong, causing his quest of rising amongst the Churches ranks  _ (a choir?)  _ to falter embarrassingly, talked down to by his superiors - an Amelia - High Vicar and face of the Church.

Catherine blinked in surprise.  _ Knowledge from the blood?  _ Such a thing was unimaginable to her, to drink up what someone used to be.

Why hadn’t this happened with the vial she had just drank? Painted in blood as she was?

She suddenly remembered her predicament, rolling under the monsters legs as it tried to snatch at her, hands scraping at its belly. Catherine was not idle, blade running through the creature's ankles and carving through tendon, causing it to fall to its side in a massive heap, head hanging over the bridge as it let out a pathetic moan.

Her arm raised again, hacking through bone and muscle and removing the creatures hand, the bloodied limb slamming to the ground with a heavy thud. The stub pulsed, crimson spurting from it in thick ribbons as Catherine took her spear and plunged it between two barren ribs.

This time, she could  _ feel _ as its very essence was siphoned into her body - consumed wholly as its body went slack, a single rattling gasp slipping from its throat and punctuating the Clerics death with not a bang, but a whimper.

Memories flooded into her, a blurred mess of this man's life from front to back, the fear that struck him as he felt the Scourge - for that was what the Church called this plague - taking control. The anger he bore against his betters, how he felt they couldn’t recognize his love for the Church.

Reginald, she realized, the man bearing an almost delusional obsession with receiving the ultimate blessing of the Church and being granted admittance to the Upper Ward. To be a member of the Choir, something that he knew just as little of as she did.

But there was no information of the Scourge itself. How it started, where it came from, how to  _ stop it. _ No mention of Paleblood nor the gods these people worshipped, only rote hymns praising Formless Oedon, the Church's god above all.

Exhausted and soaked to the bone, she stumbled towards the gate only to find it locked tight. She wrapped her hands around the iron, pulling on it uselessly.

Nothing.

She tried the door to her left, reinforced heavily and just as stalwart in disallowing her entrance to the Cathedral Ward.

Catherine found herself laughing, falling to the ground and propping herself up against the frigid wall. The sounds that left her body were maniacal, tinged with fury and a madness she never once thought would taint her voice.

“Useless!” she cried out, chest heaving with cackles as she raised her arms to the sky. “Absolutely useless!”

There was another bridge below, she knew - thin and packed with furious beastmen all clamoring to see her dead. Another bloodbath, another battle to be fought in her need to just  _ get home. _

Sobs shook her slight frame, now scarred and packed with lean muscle. Nothing gained from Yharnam, but instead the dream. A false strength, she thought, something stolen from others in their dying moments.

Was it all worth it?

Could she find a way to die and pray that for once, it stuck? Was that too much to ask?

Tears ran down her face as Catherine’s pain echoed across the city, and if one were to listen they would find her wails not too dissimilar from the creature that lay dead at her hand.

Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy, the burden of the hunt pressing down on them with a weight unimaginable, and soon she found herself unable to fight it - drifting off into a fitful sleep.


	6. Chapter Six | Regression Toward the Mean

Crimson drapes, clean and untainted by the scum of Yharnam were what Catherine saw upon waking. She found herself blinking unsteadily, eyes tracking over the wooden posts that framed her bed, free of scars and the tell-tale scratches of claws.

Rising slowly, she rubbed her hand over her face, mask snug beneath her chin and her armor now unmarred, clean apart from a few signs of wear.

_What the hell?_

This wasn’t Yharnam. This was…

“Hogwarts.”

Her words were a whisper, both frightful and eager. They danced across her lips quietly, so faint as to barely settle among the warm blankets and steady oak that surrounded her - curtains hiding away the morning sun.

There was a sliver of it to be seen through the drapes, pale gold and so bright it hurt her to so much as glance at.

Moonlight had been her only beacon for the last week, just once catching sight of the burning Yharnam sky in the late afternoon, but not before having her chest torn open and face covered in the still warm brains of a man whose mind was scarred by insanity.

She could hear no voices, only the discordant mutterings of Lavender’s sleep talk and the whistle of Hermione’s breathing - face presumably mashed against a book she was too tired to put away.

Quiet as could be, she removed her boots and armor, wincing at the muted whine of steel against steel as her weapons pressed against each other. She reached over, suppressing an audible sigh at the familiar sensation of her wand resting upon her nightstand.

A silencing charm later and she was quick to get to work, shedding her clothes as if she were shedding Yharnam itself, leaning over the end of her bed to cram everything into the bottom of her trunk - gun wrapped in an old shirt and her saws buried underneath her blanket.

Dobby could always help her find a new one.

The blood… the blood she kept off to the side, swaddled in so much cloth it looked like a newborn.

Catherine didn’t know why everything came with her, but it was enough to tell her that Yharnam wasn’t just a bad dream.

Her clothes from home felt awkward on her skin, clinging to her scars - another reminder - in such a way that she couldn’t ignore them, and every single breath that pulled at her chest seemed to tighten the seams. They scraped at her underarms, at her thinning waist, a reminder of where she had been and what she had done.

Catherine found herself asking a single question. _Is it over?_

Was that Cleric on the bridge her true purpose in Yharnam? Was it just the beginning… all of this a cruel dream, something to keep her busy before being unceremoniously yanked back into a city that lived and breathed despair?

Swallowing heavily at the thought, she crawled out of bed, bare feet pattering against the floor as she walked unsteadily toward the toilets.

Fear struck her at the thought of looking into the mirror. How different would she be, after only a week in that nightmare?

Steeling herself, Catherine lifted her head to look into her own eyes.

They were cutting, she noticed, fraught with anxiety. She could scarcely hold her own gaze, glancing to the corners of the room - watching the dark. Her ears were perked up, nostrils flared as she sniffed out any danger.

She’d turned bestial.

It was only a bit... just the faintest drop of corruption, but it was _there._ She could tell in the way her eyes narrowed, almost glowing against the faint shadow cast throughout the toilets. The muscles in her neck twitched reflexively at the faint squeak of someone rolling over on their bed.

Somehow, Catherine knew it was Fay. The other girls were too small, too large comparatively to make the mattress shrill in such a way. The sound was wholly unique. Something she had long ago come to recognize as Fay, yet it never truly _clicked._

Her mind swam at the idea of it, things she could suddenly remember as clear as day when, if asked about it before her unholy trip into Yharnam, she couldn’t have possibly known.

_How?_

Catherine traced her silhouette in the mirror, fingers dancing over the glass. _Not enough._ She was all edges now, not a bit of softness to be found.

Sharp as a knife.

It seemed her feet had a mind of their own, soon laced up in the boots she had stolen off that rotting corpse beneath the streets, soaked in the excess of an entire city. They were comfortable, familiar. Something she couldn’t say about Hogwarts.

If the school had felt strange to her before her perilous trip, now it seemed otherworldly.

Hogwarts halls spoke of comfort, still. Catherine felt warmed to the bone, almost safe walking its grand corridors (and god, she’d forgotten what that meant), flanked by empty knights and portraits of those long dead. It was almost as if the school were a crypt. Some relic of a forgotten age that never really stepped its way into the modern world.

It reminded her of Yharnam. Arches and spires of sharp gothic design. Strange, winding passages that lead nowhere and everywhere.

If Hogwarts was alive, then one day its corpse would be that of Yharnam. Nothing but a broken dream and the echoes of a peoples that once enjoyed the safety of its crumbling walls.

Her path was long and winding, tracking through corridor after corridor, up staircases, past windows cracked with frost. Winter was still fierce here, moreso in February - seeping into cracks in the stone and laying feelers across every inch of open glass. Hogwarts itself was torrid, stiflingly so, but there was some level of cold that seemed to latch onto her from the outside. Just a whisper of it, a cloying reminder of the world beyond the castle.

The owlery was frigid in comparison, nothing to seal in the warmth but for a few enchantments lazily strewn about the tower.

“Hedwig,” she gasped, almost sobbing as her friend flew over to rest on her shoulder, nibbling at her ear obsessively.

Hedwig crooned and chirped, face rubbing against her own and so full of love that for a moment, Catherine was convinced her heart would burst.

_She still loves me._

Catherine knew she smelled of the moon, something Eileen had commented on in one of her many trips to the sewers, the scent of it somehow above the filth that ran its depths. Maybe that was what caused Hedwig to not flee, to avoid animal instinct catching on the scourge that now tainted her blood.

“Hey girl. I missed you.”

Her reply was another series of clacks and chirps, all so wonderfully bright.

“Would you like some food?”

Yet more chattering. Good.

Catherine wandered to the kitchens, a long walk to go from the owlery to the dungeons, but it was welcomed all the same. She needed time to think.

There was no tightness to her breath, no burn in her legs as she descended floor after floor. Perhaps there was some good to come from Yharnam if she wanted to survive the next few years of school.

A laugh erupted from her, startling a nearby portrait.

Surviving school in the literal sense. She wondered what the death trap would be this year. Umbridge? It was possible, the woman was mad by all accounts and a bigot without measure on all others.

How had her life come to this? Not a sense of worry for her own life but resignation at what she knew was to come. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t really die, not anymore.

Catherine had no illusions that the Dream still held her, grip like iron and furious in its intensity. Perhaps it would be a year from now when she’s dragged back in kicking and screaming, perhaps it would be tomorrow.

She swallowed heavily as she walked into the kitchens with Hedwig stuck tight to her shoulder. The elves were happy to see her, Dobby most of all, jumping and shouting and positively _gleeful_ to have the ‘Great Catherine Potter’ come back and say hello.

Of course she would say hello. He was her friend, strange as he was. But she could scarcely think of it, offering him a tight hug and a handshake - he loved handshakes - to thank him for helping feed Hedwig.

Hedwig preened and dove into the barely seared steak with relish, snapping up bits of bloodied meat in a near frenzy. Catherine watched her, watched the elves putter around the kitchen as if she wasn’t even there, snaps and flashes of light marking each and every dish they threw together, cooking at a speed so fast she feared she would get nauseous just looking at it.

Tears worried at the corners of her eyes, stomach empty and no fleck of hunger to be found. It never would be found, not again. She was changed, forevermore. Could she still, by chance, die here? Catherine thought she couldn’t die, but did that only hold true in Yharnam?

Regardless, she wasn’t eager to test her notion, even if the thought of death - true death - now seemed more a comfort than fear.

Death, she had found, was agonizing. It didn’t matter if she drowned, was stabbed, crushed underfoot, it all hurt the same. That same terrible fright that clung to her very soul, something primal lashing out and screaming its defiance.

It was a pain of the heart more than anything. She couldn’t fight something like that, something so intrinsic to the human experience that to even think otherwise would seem almost blasphemous.

But she wasn’t entirely human anymore, was she?

-::-

Defence class was a trifle in Catherine’s mind, happy to sit back and read through the droll excuse for a textbook Umbridge had given them with nary a peep.

She had seen far worse in Yharnam than anything that woman had to offer.

It seemed to infuriate her though. Catherine could see the way her jaw clenched when she answered Umbridge’s questions with basic statements, simple offerings of what the textbook had so blandly explained. She easily kowtowed to the woman's manic demands, never once offering her usual brand of snark.

“Miss Potter?”

Sighing, she looked up. “Yes, Professor Umbridge?”  
  
This was the fifth time she had called on her, the class completely and utterly silent otherwise. Hermione’s bottom lip jutted out every time Umbridge had spoken up, and Ron was staring at Catherine mystified.

She must have looked a monk to him.

“If one were to be stopped by Aurors doing a routine check-up, what should one do?”

Dog-earring the page, Catherine placed the book on her desk. “Comply, answer the necessary questions and bid them a good day.”

She couldn’t help smiling as Umbridge attempted to find something wrong with her answer, the woman's tongue poking at her cheek and eyes bugging out of her head as she stared her down. 

“And if they require you to come with them? A…” Umbridge gestured at her ruffled clothes. “Suspicious looking girl like you, what then?”

“Go with them, of course.”

The classroom was painfully silent as they watched the two stand-off. Catherine tired, itching for a taste of the blood she knew rested not five minutes away. Umbridge, searching for _anything_ to ridicule the girl with.

It seemed she didn’t need a reason.

“Detention, every night this week.”

“Why?”

“Insolence,” the woman spat.

Catherine picked up her book, turning it over a few times, admiring how terribly boring the entire thing was. Even the cover, with childish mid-century art bearing the image of two young magicals, their cheeks rosy and surrounded by blacked-out cats.

It began to smoke in her hands, the pages turned to cinders and flames boring through the cover. She smiled at Umbridge as the fire grew, bearing no mind as it licked at her fingers, hardly ticklish if anything.

The blood worked wonders.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She admired her work, murmurs flowing across the class like water from a stream. There would be gossip about this. “Not taking you seriously. I’ll attend your detentions, but not this class. And I'm sure you remember my remedial potions lessons with Professor Snape. I'm afraid I can't miss those.”

Face red, Umbridge stamped her foot. “You will do no such thing!”

“I will.” She flashed her knuckles, the row of students in front of her gasping at the scars. “You taught me this, right?” Catherine ran a finger over the marks, skin sunken and puckered. “What strange detentions you give, Professor Umbridge.”

The grin that threatened to spread across her face would have been terrifying. Instead, she smiled quaintly, leaving her book to smoulder on the desk as she gathered her things - which amounted to simply slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Hermione and Ron didn’t know whether to get up and follow, or to stay still, the two of them looking at her with confusion. They made up their minds quickly, snatching their belongings and following after her in a huff, door slamming shut behind them to Umbridge’s outraged cries.

“What the hell!” Ron gasped as soon as they were out, beaming at her. “That was crazy!”

Hermione slapped her on the shoulder, practically hissing. “What was that?”

“I’m tired of her.” Catherine studied the two of them, barely able to recognize her friends after the week she had just had.

It felt like a year to her, one terrified and stained in blood.

“You can’t just… just do something like that, walk out. You know she’ll make things worse.”

A laugh almost broke through, exhausted and tinged with madness. Almost. “Not enough to bother me.”

The two of them paused, Ron looking her over. “You okay? You’re looking real tired. Just… bad, I guess.”

“I’m fine. You guys didn’t need to come with me either, I don’t want her after you two as well.”

Huffing, Hermione crossed her arms. “She’s after us anyways, and you don’t get to just light your book on fire. A book! On fire! I don’t care how awful it was, burning books is a terrible thing.”

Catherine snorted, quickly devolving into a fit of giggles as she bent over herself, arms clutched around her waist. “Really? Seriously? That’s what got you so angry?” She wiped her eyes, fighting back yet more laughter. “Jeez. Hear that Ron? Don’t so much as throw out an evangelical tract around her, she might lose it.”

“A what?”

“An evan- you know, don’t worry about it. Best you don’t know.” She clapped her hands. “So, we’ve got some time to kill. What do you want to do?”

Something seemed to click in Hermione’s head as she glanced back towards the door. “Oh no,” she muttered. “I just skived off class.”

Ron grinned again, patting her on the back. “Welcome to the club.”

“What! Since when do you two skip?”

“Always. Trelawney is out of her mind. Why would we waste time on that?”

“I… you- ” Hermione raised her hand, finger pointed, yet unsure of whether to direct her ire towards Ron or Catherine. “We _are_ talking about this later.”

“Alright.”

_You won’t get any answers out of me._

Suddenly, Catherine remembered her Occlumency lessons.

_Shit, shit, shit._

How was she supposed to hide this from Snape? From Dumbledore? How was she supposed to hide this from her _friends?_

Even the D.A. would notice if she didn’t hamstring herself. There was no way she could just walk back into the Room of Requirement and not expect people to see how fast she had gotten, how strong she now was.

She could probably lift Ron without too much trouble, if any. Hermione would be a walk in the park.

Catherine blushed, mind flitting to other, more unsavoury thoughts. Not that of blood and screams, but instead whispers in the dark, hot flesh and-

A hand waved in front of her face, Ron peering down at her. “You alright? Seriously.”

“Fine.” She coughed, averting her eyes. “Just fine.”

From blood and terror to… whatever this was. The whiplash was incredible.

_Don’t get used to this,_ she told herself. _Don’t get complacent._

Ron, Hermione… they were both so _innocent._ How could she look at them after what she had done? How could she speak with them after what she had seen? Her jaw clicked shut, breath growing strained.

She was a killer now, tried and tested. There was no spinning it any other way.

_You’ve changed,_ the voice whispered, almost piteous. _Will you let them know, or shall thy plights go unanswered?_

“Fuck off.”

“What?”

“Nothing I just- ” she stammered uselessly, wincing.

_Thine words lack kindness, Child. Are you then a true hunter? Vile and unfettered by the bonds of humanity?_

Slamming her fist against the side of her head, Catherine swore again, nails scraping harshly at her temple. “I need to go.”

“Catherine, what are you- ”  
  
 _“I need to go,”_ she growled, turning on the two of them and marching towards the lake. They tried to follow but she was too quick, dashing down the stairs with quiet steps, much quieter than they should be with wooden soles on hard stone.

Her breaths were hurried by the time she made it to the lake, snow caked underfoot and the air misting on her lips. Magic crackled along her wand, sparks of sharp red bursting from the tip and searing marks across the snow.

Motions hurried, she swept the powder out of the way, transfiguring a chunk of it into stone and dried wood. Catherine set it alight, adding a warming charm for good measure as she sat before the flame.

She had wished she could do this while in Yharnam. To be able to use her magic so freely - if at all - was wondrous.

Catherine didn’t give any thought to the fact that she didn’t know how to cast a warming charm, that she had never practiced such a thing - only having seen it cast by Hermione or one of her Professors. She didn’t notice that she had cast it wordlessly either, the magic leaping from her wand with glee.

Basking in the warmth of the fire, Catherine watched the lake ripple slowly, minute waves running over its surface and peaking gently across the rocky beach. She didn’t mind how it reminded her of that dream, a man sobbing in the distance before his agony built to a blind fury, rage echoing towards the sea and drowned out by its oily depths.

It was serene.

The lake never seemed to frost over. Perhaps it was the Merpeople and some magic of theirs, keeping it just warm enough for them to not freeze in the blinding cold.

Her thoughts wandered to Ron and Hermione, wondering how she could even begin to approach them.

_Should I?_

It seemed an impossible task, almost as if she were condemning them to the same fate as her. Prophecy, she remembered, the Sword of Damocles hanging aloft and waiting for just the right moment to strike. It would tear her apart, not leaving her dead but instead wishing she were.

War, most likely. If the Ministry ever managed to pull their heads out of their asses and _look,_ just for a moment, they would see the threat they faced, that _everyone_ faced. For the first time in her life she thought she just may see twenty.

Catherine had always thought her life more finite than most. Why wouldn’t she, when faced with a man who wanted her dead when she was but an infant? When she grew up in a home cursed with such a severe absence of love that the very concept was alien to her?

Laughing to herself, she studied the rocky peaks in the distance. She didn’t know _what_ to feel, nor how to in the first place. If she were to be honest with herself, she was confident she would have taken her own life given the courage.

But magic always left her wondering, hanging on for more. Perhaps another taste of it could spark something in her, garner some measure of hope that never seemed to stick around for long.

Catherine didn’t really want to die, she just didn’t really see much point in living. Now, she didn’t have a choice.

It was calming and infuriating at the same time. No escape, no way out, just the great infinite laid before her with nothing but a dim light shining upon her immediate path.

Her ears twitched at the sound of crunching snow, glancing to her left to see Dumbledore walking in her direction.

Sighing, she waved him over, directing him to the little nook she had made for herself.

“Hey.”

He smirked at her casual greeting, clearing out a bit more snow before shuffling his robes, settling on the grass next to her.

They sat in silence for a while, just admiring the stark beauty of the Scottish highlands. It all seemed dark. Deep gray stone, the lake an inky blue - even the tufts of grass that poked out of the snow were a green so rich they seemed to drink in the light.

“I’m guessing Hermione and Ron sent you?”

“No.” Dumbledore turned to her, inscrutable. “A portrait notified me of a student striking themself in the halls, quite violently.” He took out his wand, rolling it over in his palm. “May I?”

“What?”

“Your head.” He frowned. “You’re bleeding.”

Bringing her hand up, Catherine poked at her temples, hardly wincing at the sting. Her fingers shone red, still wet. “Oh. I am.”

Tutting, Dumbledore passed his wand over the side of her head, the wound twinging as it was pulled shut. “Better?”

Catherine shrugged. “Didn’t even notice it.”

“I find that concerning.”

“How?”

“Did you not…” Dumbledore seemed at a loss for words, something she had never seen from the man. “There was, and is, quite a bit of blood on you Catherine. Your hair is soaked in it.”

Grabbing a stick out of the snow, she transfigured it into a mirror.

Catherine scowled at her reflection. Her hair was matted across the left side of her face, blood having tracked its way down her neck and soaked into the collar of her robes. Cleaning herself up with some melted snow, she realized she must have scratched herself something awful, pale marks running down her cheek a sign of newly healed flesh.

How grim. Yet, she couldn’t help but find it a little funny. A week of dying had raised her already absurd pain tolerance to terrible heights. Perhaps she was like one of those people she had read about, unable to feel anything - often burning themselves on the stovetop and only noticing when the sweet scent of burning flesh managed to suffuse the room.

She knew that wasn’t the case, warm as she was. People like that couldn’t feel anything. No heat, no cold, no touch. Just another brand of silence.

“Thank you.”

“Catherine. I’m worried for you. When we spoke yesterday, you seemed almost excited to learn why I had been… remiss in my interactions with you. Fearful, yes, who wouldn’t be when faced with such a thing? But today, dare I say it, you seem a woman possessed.”

She did laugh at that, a dry, feeble thing. “Not possessed, just having what seems to be a nervous breakdown.”

“We could talk to Poppy if you’d like, a calming draught may help.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Biting her lip, she tore her eyes away from the lake and looked at Dumbledore. Really _looked_ at him.

He seemed so much older, eyes filled with some implacable sadness. The man almost withered at her stare, before collecting himself. He changed in that moment, face bright and whatever cloud hung over him disappearing in a single blink.

It was a mask. Something learned with age, maybe as a necessity, perhaps even a part of himself that Dumbledore didn’t even know existed.

“I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Smiling at her, he shook his head and let out a quiet sigh. “You always worry me.”

“It’s my greatest talent. Catherine Potter, Bane of Dumbledore’s Sanity, Bearer of Poppy Pomfrey's Golden Cot.”

Dumbledore gave out a low chuckle. “We may have to put a plaque above that bed in your honour. Or, the school should gift it to you, as you most likely have squatters' rights. How long have you spent in that bad I wonder?” He looked down at his lap, arms crossed snugly across his chest. “A frightening amount of time, I believe.”

“I’ll take it as a graduation gift then. Take it home with me, once I’m done with school. Done with… well, you know.”

"Ah, yes. The world of careers and perhaps, the study of a mastery. Have you given that any thought?"

"Honestly? Not really. Been more worried about Voldemort than anything." She whistled through her teeth. "Bit hard to think beyond that mess."

"I'm terribly sorry, Catherine. You deserve so much more."

She leaned back, propping herself up on the tree and lacing her hands behind her head. "Things will be fine," Catherine said, and she meant it.

After seeing what Yharnam had to offer - even just a taste, because god only knows what else was in that city - the ever-present threat of Voldemort was all of a sudden a touch lackluster.

"For you to say that so strongly, an old man like myself finds himself believing it." He seemed proud of her. "True conviction is oft… hard to come by, especially in lives as troubled as ours."

"I dunno'. We might just be crazy."

Dumbledore clapped once, his laugh ringing out across the lake. "We just might. Now, I believe supper will be on soon. Would you care to walk with me back to the school?"

He offered her a hand, Catherine taking it gratefully as he hoisted her up with a surprising amount of strength. "Thanks."

"No need to thank me. I will always help you Catherine. You only need to ask."

"I'll keep that in mind. Again, thanks."

"Well mannered too." He raised an eyebrow as they walked toward the castle. "Am I to thank for that as well?"

Catherine tapped her chin. "I think that one falls more on Snape."

_"Professor_ Snape, although, I find that surprising. You two seem to be at each other's throats more often than not. Polite?"

"It gets on his nerves."

Try as he might, Dumbledore couldn't fight the smile that crept over his face. "Don't take my reaction as encouragement," he stated grandly. "He _is_ your Professor."

"I know." And for once Catherine found herself sympathizing with Snape, in her own strange way. No one ended up the way he did through a life full of cheer.

"I'll speak with him tonight, regarding your lessons."

“How many times am I going to need to thank you?”

“You need never thank me, Catherine.” Dumbledore pointed toward the castle. “Shall we go?”

“Right behind you.”

She followed after Dumbledore, unable to see the man's troubled face, scarred with age - his hand ghosting over his wand and ready at a moment's notice to turn on her - maddened as she was.


	7. Chapter Seven | Hand of Stone

Supper was a quiet affair, Catherine picking at her food so lazily that even Ron found himself worried for her.

It was delicious, roast chicken seasoned to perfection and a mash so creamy it seemed as if it would disappear upon gracing her tongue. Yet, Catherine found it somehow bland. Food didn't excite her the way it once did, something precious to be hoarded, squirreled away so that the Dursleys wouldn't leave her to waste locked behind chains and shutters in a barren room.

She humoured them, smiling and humming as she took miniscule bites from her sparse plate, barely chipping away at the feast set before them.

Was there always so much food? She wondered at it, how much this school alone consumed.

There were plates stacked high as far as the eye could see, an almost blinding number of meals arrayed across the tables in fantastical arrangements. They weren't just delicious, they were a visual delight as well.

Every piece of food had been placed so as to be beautiful, shining in the bright candlelight. There was corn on the cob, cast in that sweet orange glow. Suckled pig, crackling skin dusted in salt and pepper, flecked with the deep green of thyme.

It made her nauseous.

The smell of it all was overwhelming, the racket of chattering students crashing against her like waves upon the shore. Her stomach churned, aching for a sip of blood. It called to her from her dorm, swaddled in cloth and chill to the touch.

Yharnam blood was never warm. Not the way she knew it to be. It seemed too thick, too stale as it slid over her fingers. The blood was almost recalcitrant, stubbornly clinging to the body of its host. But when drank it was eager, happy to work its way into the veins of this new strange being that hummed with a power it had never tasted.

Umbridge would be waiting for her. Catherine could see her peeking down at the Gryffindor table every so often, face pinched and a glimmer behind her eyes that spoke of some deep-seated deranged satisfaction.

That woman adored the pain she inflicted, loved it as a mother loved her child. The irony of that notion didn't escape Catherine. Umbridge was bigotry personified, packed tightly behind the thin veneer of civility. Just like many at the Ministry she deemed muggleborn and anyone with a fleck of creature blood to be her own magical definition of untermensch.

"Fucking nazi," Catherine uttered, pushing her meal away.

" _Cat."_

"What? She is."

Hermione set her fork down, thumb brushing over the utensil nervously. "I know, I just- do you need to curse?"

"No, but does it matter? It is what she is."

"Nazi?" Ron interjected. "Like, Grindelwald?"

"Exactly like Grindelwald."

He grew quiet, prodding at his meal. "Think that's a bit much?"

"You've seen the way she treats Hermione. You've heard how she talks about Lupin and Fleur. It wouldn't surprise me if she wholeheartedly supported Voldemort."

Ron twitched at the name, cheek tugging awkwardly. "I guess."

"We need her out of this school."

"How?"

"I dunno'." Catherine stared at Umbridge, doing nothing to hide the ire in her gaze.

She could kill her. That was an option.

Just as suddenly as the thought came to her, Catherine was sick, forgetting her reluctant meal entirely.

Did she really just… _to kill her?_ That was her first reaction?

_You do not abide by her notions. Her morals are twisted, like the Church so long ago. Though, their horrors are unmatched even by the monsters of thine world._

Catherine practically hissed inside her mind. _That doesn't mean I should kill her._

_Art thou not a hunter? Is she not seen as prey? A skittering mouse jeweled in bright colours and bearing an appetite far beyond its needs?_

And Catherine fumed, because she _did_ see Umbridge as prey. The blood had wormed into her mind, rewriting it and painting her world in crimson hues. It pulsed in her skull and beat at her ribs with clawed fists, eager and urging in its incessant cry.

_Hunt, hunt! Taste of her blood!_

She stamped it down, tongue flicking over now pointed teeth (because the urges weren't enough) as Catherine turned away from Umbridge, lip curled in disgust.

Catherine had changed so much in that week. She was functionally immortal, had a growing obsession with blood, and frightful urges to attack anything that looked at her wrong to boot.

Might as well call herself a Vampire and get it over with.

"I've got detention," Catherine said, getting to her feet. "Gotta' go."

Hermione grabbed her wrist as she went to leave, heart pounding at her touch. "We'll find a way to stop this. To stop her hurting you."

"It's not me I'm worried about." She inclined her head towards the Creevey brothers. "If she gets her hands on people like them they're never going to come out of it the same."

"But what about _you."_

Catherine laughed. "She can't hurt me. Not really."

" _Cat."_

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Ron interrupted, startling the both of them. "You've been off all day. Shite, it's worrying me. _Me."_ He jabbed his thumb into his chest. "Just… you can talk to us, you know? I'm probably a shite listener, but I'll try my best, okay?"

"Like I said, I'll be alright. But… thanks for worrying about me."

"'Kay, just… you know, don't bottle it up." Ron leaned forward. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but my Dad does that. He doesn't show it, but he's just no good at talking about things. Mum has to drag it out of him, make him talk, and it does a world of good."

Arthur, huh?

"I'll… thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"S'alright. We'll stay up for you, that sound good?"

Catherine found herself smiling. "Yeah." She looked at Hermione. "I mean, I've got my own personal healer here, murtlap always at the ready. I could do with a bit of relaxation after today."

The smile she received was blinding, and even though Hermione waved her off as soon as she realized her own expression, Catherine had already taken that image and locked it away in her heart.

Maybe she could survive this.

First, she needed blood.

Ducking out of the Great Hall, Catherine walked the castle until she took the stairs up Gryffindor Tower, shuffling delicately through her trunk and fastening a blood vial to the lining of her robes with a sticking charm.

But not before considering a sip, or at least admiring the way the liquid shifted inside its translucent container.

Feeling more comfortable than she had in months, she set off to Umbridge's office, only the faintest twinge of anxiety tainting her steps.

What Catherine feared the most was reacting as she had been taught to, with unrepentant violence. She could already feel the hunters call, so quiet as it sang to her its fury.

Her footsteps were loud and measured, a far cry from the muffled, tentative crawl of the city, creeping round corners with sweaty palms and an aching heart. The Catherine of Hogwarts was brazen, snappish and quick to retort to any slight. This seemed a return to form for her, forcing herself to walk noisily and without a constant reminder of danger peeking out of every shadow.

It made her feel almost normal for a moment.

Hope brimmed in Catherine's chest as she opened Umbridge's door, something she almost found herself laughing at. The absurdity of feeling hope upon the doorstep of one's torturer was unique, to her, almost laughable.

Thankfully, she quelled that laughter, offering Umbridge a smile as she shut the door quietly.

"Hello."

"Hello, _Professor."_

"If you say so," she replied, taking a seat and extending her hand, stifling her cackles at Umbridge's pinched expression. "My quill, please?"

Umbridge instead crossed her arms. "You seem to have developed some cheek as of late. I'd thought my lessons were sinking in. I said, _hello Professor._ "

"Oh, hello professor, and very much so." Catherine tilted her fist, scars shining. " _I will not tell lies._ I've not told you a single lie."

"Your incessant need to seek attention is a slight on your houses name, Blood Traitors that they were - you've managed to find ways to sink the title Potter to new depths."

"Really? How so."

"You burned my book."

"I burned _my_ book. Purchased with my own money."

Umbridge seethed, lips smashed together in thinly veiled anger. She tossed the blood quill at Catherine who snatched it with ease. "Thank you. By the way, where would I find a quill with an end like this?" she asked, flicking the metal tip. "It's a dip pen more than anything. I can't seem to find something like it whenever I go to the shops."

"Enough. Now _write."_

Raising her hands in surrender, Catherine set to dashing lines across the page, hardly worried as the quill worked its magic - those same lines upon her knuckles growing deeper, bloodied and swollen with each and every swipe.

She almost felt tempted to draw, her blood making such a fine ink. It didn't bleed (she thought with laughter) through the parchment, thin veins splaying out across the page as it worked through the very fibres of the goatskin.

Clean and crisp, every scrape of the nib a clear line struck upon the page. Catherine hummed as she wrote her lines, happy tunes leaking from her throat and ebbing across the room - deathly quiet with the only other noises being the scratching of her quill and the audible twitching of Umbridge's right eyelid.

"Quiet."

Catherine ceased her humming, not looking up from the page as she continued to write, appending her words with happy loops and handy twirls as the letters rolled into one another. She admired her newly improved script, finding herself thankful for once of whatever magic the Doll had cursed her with.

If insanity weren't the trade off, she would happily tell Ron of the opportunity to improve his handwriting.

" _Only a drop!"_ she imagined herself saying, offering him a vial tied to the inside of her coat as if she were a noir film smuggler. " _That's all it takes!"_

Oh, he'd be horrified, no doubt. " _Cat, real happy you figured out your handwriting, but I'm not really a vampire am I? And… you aren't either… right?"_

Her mind continued on that path, imagining her attempts to convince Ron that no, she wasn't a vampire, because in all honesty that would be so much simpler than her current affair.

 _Never let it be said that I'm not a daydreamer,_ she mused. _Gryffindor's Slytherin my arse._

Catherine's classmates had always considered her dour, struck with an occasional sense of _very_ dry humour that tended to lean toward mean than funny. Really, it was the Dursley's fault. They'd taught her to taunt rather than confront, to choose your battles via the last word rather than total victory.

They hadn't necessarily taught her so explicitly, more behaviour learned from years of biting back with quiet, snide comments at their constant stream of derision. But learn she did, taking her impromptu lessons and keeping them close to the heart, knowing that if they served her at home they could serve her anywhere.

It did make it difficult to find friends, but once Hermione and Ron had broken through whatever shell Catherine had fashioned she embraced that friendship with an eagerness that startled them and herself.

Catherine loved her friends, she loved them so much it hurt. Her sitting in Umbridge's office carving words into her flesh... that, to her, was an offering. Blood offered for friendship given, a form of atonement for the trouble she had put them through over all these years.

Ron and Hermione had nearly died on their many adventures, something that made her heart clench so fiercely she feared it would be her own death. A heart attack in her teens seemed feasible with the stress they put her through, placing themselves in harm's way just to support her constant trawl into the dark.

If push came to shove and this war she thought was coming happened, she would lay her life down for them without hesitation.

Because what else could prophecy call for but war? Not a single one of the stories she had ever read ended in the hero triumphing over evil. Not with nary a scratch upon their skin nor a scar to their psyche.

Beowulf walked eagerly to his death, Arthur was fatally wounded by Mordred, Gawain - his friend - was struck down by Lancelot after his bitterness drove him to terrible lengths, splitting the round-table in his anger.

Not the stories children commonly read, but the librarian - Janice - in that sleepy little building in Surrey took a pity to her.

Catherine had asked her of her favourite stories. Janice provided.

Tales of kings and knights, magic and war. They were incredible, so far and away from the churning boredom that hung over Surrey like a curse. Suburbia refined into a poison.

Janice was her first real friend. Of a sort, at least. An aging spinster with not a penny to her name, but that library was her labour and love all wrapped up in a package smelling of mothballs and stale dust.

She humoured Catherine, occasionally reading to her when the building was empty - which it often was. Catherine was a demanding child, begging for stories along the line of Tolkien, even written history describing the escapades of empires long lost to the annals of time.

The excitement she displayed upon being told Hadrian's wall still stood made her so excited that Janice had to carry her out by her arms, chiding Catherine and telling her to come back another day when she could control herself.

Catherine didn't think she'd ever learned self control.

She chuckled to herself, ignoring Umbridge's pointed gaze.

If she were to be like those fabled wanderers, which would she resemble? Was she truly a hero? Of what story, she wondered, if any?

The petulant child raised by a family who couldn't deign to love her, cast into a world fanciful to the point of insanity and immediately gifted with the burden of her rotting parentage. _A hero_ she was called by those fools in the pub. Adults caught up in a fantasy of their own creation. But didn't every hero think themselves common?

Catherine couldn't place herself in the shoes of others and look upon herself as they would. She found it impossible to set sight on the mystique that surrounded the events in Godric's Hollow so long ago.

" _I'm just Catherine,"_ she had told Hagrid on that cold, stormswept rock near Cokeworth, staring up at a man larger than life and kinder than anything she could have possibly imagined.

" _Aye,"_ he replied. " _And a lot more'n that too."_

Her hand stung as she neared the bottom of the page, the slight pain bringing Catherine back to earth.

Blood seeped over her knuckles, tracking down the cracks in her fingers and welling up in shallow pools, captured by untainted flesh. It glimmered beautifully and Catherine found herself tempted to lap at it as if a dog.

Perhaps it was the magic in it, but her own blood was more exquisite than anything she had ever tasted. The taint of Yharnam had changed her so thoroughly that the dredge of sharp copper no longer stung her tongue, replaced by a flowery sweet so painfully subtle that she often found herself chasing after it for more.

A bit cheek was now to her a treat, an explosion of ambrosia to be released at a moment's notice.

"I think I'm done."

Umbridge glanced up from her reading only to shriek, having found herself bored by Catherine's silence.

Not much of a kick out of torture if they don't squeal.

"You've got blood everywhere! I- " she heaved, nauseous. "I can see your knuckles!"

Inspecting her hand, Catherine agreed with her observation. The quill had cut so deep as to etch its magic into the bone beneath, hardly visible through the blood bubbling out of her skin.

"Squeamish?"

Batting at the air, Umbridge pulled away. "Clean that up this instant!"

Happy to oblige after having been shown the depravity of blood magic firsthand, Catherine vanished her blood along with the parchment, wrapping her fist in cloth to make sure none of it dripped onto the floor.

"Alright. Is that everything?"

"Yes!" Umbridge screamed, pointing at the door. "Now go!"

Catherine was out the door in a flash, barely glancing down the hall before she had unstoppered the vial in her pocket and raised it to her lips.

Her chest heaved as she drank half of it in one go, sighing in relief as the sharp pain in her hand dulled to the point of nonexistence. She unwrapped it, smiling at the newly knitted flesh.

It looked a touch cleaner than her previous sessions, just a hint of blood and the edges of the wound swollen.

Any more blood and Hermione would question her relentlessly, pushing to the centre of things and (too easily, she knew) learning of Catherine's newfound secrets.

No. The half a vial would have to do. No more, no less.

The only sign that she had lost so much blood were the rich stains painting the bandages that hung from her pocket, leaving a thin grime upon her robes.

Catherine was glad for Umbridge's office being at least a few floors up. Walking from the dungeons back to the Gryffindor common room was arduous even with her heightened physicality. Seven tall floors, each higher than any that would be found in a skyscraper or modern building.

The ceilings were tall no matter where you were in the castle, even the dungeons seeming expansive with vaulted ceilings and fine carvings dotting the stone every so often - just enough to break the monotony of cold walls and the quiet stench of mildew.

Gryffindor's common room was warm and welcoming as she stepped into it, shirking off her robe and collapsing noisily into the seat next to Hermione, who shouted in fright.

"God! You're so quiet lately," Hermione fussed, looking her over. "She wasn't too awful today?"

"Not especially," she said, offering her hand. Catherine reached over with the other, making sure the blood vial nestled in her robes didn't sleep free, hidden from sight. "Hey Ron."

He nodded at her, quietly working over a bit of parchment that was surely the charms paper they had due tomorrow. "Feeling better?"

"A lot, yeah. Thanks for earlier by the way. Really helped."

Ron grinned. "Good. Can't have ya' wandering around all death and gloom all the time. That's Snape's job."

Laughing, Catherine didn't wince as Hermione spread murtlap essence over her wound, the balm soothing and just barely cool as it was smeared over her skin. "I can be proper frightful if I want to."

"Yeah, but you can have a good laugh as well. I mean, all we've got is Umbridge this year, right? Honestly not that bad all things considered."

The smile that graced Catherine's face was cold this time. A withered thing that seemed to creep over her like a disease. "Yeah. It's a lot better."

"What was that look?" Hermione interrupted, hair bobbing as she tilted her head.

"What look?"

" _That one."_ She pointed, finger nearly brushing Catherine's nose. "Like you're keeping something from us."

_If you only knew._

"Really, please, it's nothing. I've just been talking with Dumbledore again- "

"What? I thought he was ignoring you?"

"Yeah, I mean, I just kinda' walked up to him the other day and asked him what was going on."

" _You didn't."_

Another chuckle. "I really did."

Ron pointed at her with his quill, brow furrowed. "What'd you say?"

"Like I said, I just asked him what was going on. He… he kind of told me what was happening, but that I really need to be aware that he can't tell me right this second."

"Occlu-whatever stuff, right?"

"Yup." Catherine took a fresh bandage from Hermione, thanking her quietly as she wrapped it around her hand. "I need to get better at that as fast as I can. That way I can know what the hell is going on."

"Did he give you a hint, or anything?"

She sighed heavily, fiddling with the bandage as she tied it snug against her wrist. The next word Catherine spoke was whispered. "Prophecy."

" _What!"_ they both shouted, a passed out seventh year in the corner snorting loudly and rolling over in his chair.

"Seriously?" Hermione added, taking her hand and squeezing it. "An honest, real prophecy?"

"Yeah, the real deal. At least, Dumbledore thinks it is, from what I can tell. If anyone knows about magic like that, it's him."

"Mans ancient, makes sense."

" _Ron."_

"What? It's true. He's almost one hundred and twenty. That's ancient."

"I know, but you don't just say it like that. Have a little respect."

"See!" Ron cackled, essay forgotten as he collapsed onto his back, arms splayed out above his head. "You admitted it!"

"I didn't- I wouldn't- I… alright Ronald. You got me to badmouth a teacher."

"Well, he's not really a teacher, is he? More just runs the place, and I've heard you curse at Snape plenty o' times."

"I have not."

"You really have," Catherine interrupted. "I've heard you. It's not as colourful as Ron or I, but it's still impressive."

Hermione scowled, yanking her hand out of Catherine's and crossing her arms. "You two are awful."

"Ah, but you know you love us."

"Really, you do."

"Isn't that right, Ron?"

"Absolutely, Cat. The two most loveable kids in Hogwarts."

"Enough!" Hermione slapped her legs with both hands, unable to hide her smile. "Just awful, absolutely awful."

Catherine slung her arm over Hermione's shoulder, hugging her tight. "But you really do love us."

"Yes, I do. You got me, happy? Gosh, it's like you two love to drive me mad."

Her heart pounded heavily at those words, the quietest voice in the back of her head whispering ' _Maybe, just maybe.'_

Ron grinned, looking at Catherine and snapping her out of whatever lovesick daydream she was about to conjure. "I mean, isn't that the point?"

"I think so."

Huffing good naturedly, Hermione threw off Catherine's arm. "I'm off to bed. You coming?"

"Yup."

"Hey, what about my paper?"

"That looks like your problem, right Hermione?"

She laughed quietly. "Catherine and I already had ours done days ago."

"Then you can give me a hand, right?"

Catherine waved toward the stairs, knowing that sleep wouldn't come to her even if she went looking for it. "Go on ahead, I'll give Ron a hand with this."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm still feeling pretty awake. Adrenaline and all," she explained, gesturing toward her hand.

Hermione's expression grew frosty, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "If you say so. Just don't stay up too late, okay?"

Her unspoken message was clear. _You don't sleep enough already, I'm worried for you._

"Hey, I'll be fine. Trust me, I've got Rons paper all well in hand."

With a final wave Hermione left to bed, Catherine leaning over to look at Ron's essay with the hope that it would keep her busy long enough to keep the memories out. She stamped down images of matted fur and gnashing teeth, of an antlered giant howling atop a bridge, taking the paper and propping it lazily on the table.

Catherine turned to Ron, smoothing out the parchment. "Charms, right?"


	8. Chapter Eight | Remembrance

The next four days were simple for Catherine.

Wake up. Eat enough to not worry her friends. Attend classes. Go to detention. Drink half a vial of blood.

But, an issue arose when she found she was rapidly running out of the substance, finding herself with only two vials left in the bottom of her trunk and the telltale signs of anxiety working at the back of her mind.

How did it work? Did it have to be Yharnam blood? Could any blood work, or was she consigned now to have to take time with her ‘lessons’ under Umbridge’s crooked hand?

The woman had become used to the blood and torn knuckles, at least, she could now deal with the sight. If Catherine kept up as she had without the blood she would lose function in her hand in a matter of days - tearing through nerves and tendons, bone cracking under the weight of that cursed magic.

Catherine wasn’t as worried about that as she was this evening's ‘remedial potion lesson.’

Even the mere thought of Snape discovering the recent goings on of her life sparked a twist of her belly. If he found out, then Dumbledore would, and Catherine wasn’t prepared for that sort of confrontation.

How could she even begin to explain such a thing? To try and put the horror of Yharnam into words and try to somehow convey that to a man that was by all accounts her mentor, and the closest thing that Catherine had ever had to a grandfather… it was unthinkable.

What would Dumbledore’s reaction be, she thought. Would he be horrified? Concerned? Maybe he would look on her with pity, something she never quite got a handle on.

Everyone pitied her. Catherine’s peers, strangers, even her friends held some level of it within their gaze - eyes brimming with something she found to be near reprehensible in its intention.

She could almost hear them thinking it.  _ You poor thing, how awful your life must be. _ Words dripping with derision and half-hearted conscientiousness. They didn’t see her, just the image they had fashioned in their minds.

Everyone who found fame - happily or not - must deal with that in some way, she believed. The public constructing an idea of a person, a flat character belied by the utterances of shoddily written papers and books ‘telling all’ of their daring, plight, or even the perceived mundane.

Hogwarts made it a touch easier, at least, to a degree. People knew her there, interacted with her every day.

Well, they thought they knew her.

The students grew used to her presence, none of the awed stares and whispers that came with her first day at the school, her name ringing in the ears of every one of them as she walked toward a slumped cap with her heart beating painfully at the mere reaction the word Potter had wrought.

People learned to love her, hate her, feel indifference toward her. They learned to see her as a person and not an icon, but they never truly detached themselves from the idea of her that they had built up in their mind.

Hermione and Ron knew. They knew of her time at the Dursleys, they knew how prickly she could be without even trying, and they loved her all the same.

Yharnam though… Catherine hadn’t slept in the entire time since she’d come back to Hogwarts, both not feeling the need to as well as fearing if sleep would take her back to that vile city.

Her time had been spent hunkering over the occlumency book that had been given to her at the beginning of her lessons, meditating as long as she could before she felt as though sleep would take over her.

Catherine’s mind though, was anything but calm.

Shattered by the beastly scourge, she could hardly stomach her own thoughts before violently stamping them down, tongue wet with bile and fingernails digging into her lap.

If he knew what she had been through she didn’t know what he would do with the knowledge.   
  
Snape was a spy, that much could be gleaned from the tattoo adorning his forearm and his disgustingly surly attitude. He could take it to Dumbledore or Voldemort alike, and she wasn’t sure which idea scared her more.

Voldemort would take her seriously, for once, no longer taunting her at their every confrontation and instead choosing to cut her down before she could so much as blink. Dumbledore would remove himself from her presence, or most likely remove her from Hogwarts itself.

How could the students stay safe with someone like her walking the halls? Tempered with blood and practically vibrating with murderous intent?

No, there was no doubt in Catherine’s mind that Dumbledore would take her away.

_ Wouldn’t blame him, _ she thought, poring over her book and preparing for that evening’s lesson.

He would have to be mad to  _ not _ take her away, snap her wand and send her back to the Dursleys without so much as a ‘goodbye.’ But that damned prophecy shot back into her mind and she found herself questioning whether that would be true.

What was the wording of it? How important  _ was she? _ Was Catherine some sort of prophetic saviour chosen by fate to be Voldemort’s downfall, or was she simply another wanderer with just a touch more influence than the rest?

_ The weight upon thine shoulders is terrible, is it not? Naught but a child thrust into a fight that has existed long before her, the world waiting on her every word and measured step. _

“I’m trying my best,” she whispered.

_ But is best what is needed of you? Are you to be a kindhearted defender, or one steeped in the blood of all those who stand in thine way? _

“I don’t know…” she shut her book, dog-earing the page as she tucked it into her bag. “I really don’t know. I don’t  _ want _ to be who I am now. I don’t want any of this. If I could just- ” her breath hitched, “just… end it, I would. But I  _ can’t _ . So no, I don’t know.”

_ Then learn. Teach thyself what it means to bear this weight, take it and hold it tight against your chest as though a lover. One cannot confront their fears without understanding, and one cannot understand without a mentor. _

“A mentor?”

_ Thine Master, cloaked in finery and attended by a being of light. _

“Dumbledore!? No, not happening.”

_ Why not? _

“He would… you don’t know him. You’ve been in my head, but you don’t know him. You’re just some…  _ thing _ that weaseled its way into my mind and has led me to do terrible, terrible things.”

_ You killed of your own volition. _

“You think I had a choice? You think I could get tossed into that nightmare of a city, get butchered before I even had a chance to figure out I wasn’t dreaming, and then  _ tell me _ that I have to find some damned Paleblood, whatever that is, without doing what I had done?” Catherine ground her teeth, happy to be tucked in the common room corner beneath a silencing charm, away from prying ears and eyes. “You destroyed my life and you expect me to act in any other way? There were  _ no other options.” _

_ There is always a choice. _

“No, not always! Not there, not in Yharnam.”

_ Then you understand. _

“Understand what…  _ understand what?” _ she repeated, staring a hole into the table.

Furious, she stood up, cancelling the silencing charm that hung over her cubby as she marched out the door.

At least, attempted to, not without crashing into Ron as he walked her way, hand raised to wave.

“Oh!”

They both stumbled, Catherine grabbing his shoulder before he could fall over and steadying him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said, rubbing his arm. “You’re off in a hurry, what’s goin’ on?”   
  
“Lessons with Snape soon.” Her wrist flicked, a tempus charm shimmering in the air. “In about a half hour.”

“So… why are you leaving now? Takes only ten to get down there.”

“I just- wanted to get a walk in.”

“Get a walk in,” he echoed.

“Is that so strange?”

Ron laughed, shrugging. “Not really, just- you want company? Snape is awful at the best of times, maybe I can help psych you up or something.”

She forced herself to chuckle in reply, still irked by whatever being haunted her mind. “I think I’ll be alright.”   
  
“You sure? I mean, I could maybe use it since - you know - Quidditch is a botch and all.”

“I… yeah, you know what. Sure, let’s go.”

“Wicked! Snape won’t know what hit him!” Ron said as he lead them out the door.

“You planning on attacking him or something?”

“No. What? I’m just thinking that if Hermione and I’ve got your back, there’s not much he can do apart from be a prick.”

That time, she did laugh, genuine and hearty. “That’s his main talent though, being as insufferable as possible.”

Ron’s face screwed up as he dropped his voice, lips pursed dramatically. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter. You’re breathing too loudly,” he drawled in an admittedly  _ awful _ impression.

“Pretty damned accurate.”

The two laughed, joking back and forth as they walked to the dungeons.

It felt nostalgic to Catherine, like something she had lost but now rediscovered. In a way, it was.

Somehow she found herself relaxing around her friends, yet away from them she grew tense beyond imagining, picturing creatures in the dark and wolves waiting behind heavy doors to come leaping out and tear her limb from limb.

Her mood flipped at the drop of a hat, moving from jovial to an all encompassing depression that her younger self would have paled at, never quite believing things could get that bad.

Here, now, needling Ron over his inability to ever finish a paper in a reasonable amount of time, Catherine thought that things  _ could _ be good, given the chance. Her life, if she made it out of all of this, could be as close to normal as she wished it to be.

Running away from Britain to hide in some remote town where no one would ever find her was something that constantly flitted through her mind. Perhaps Spain, or Canada - no one would  _ ever  _ come looking for her in Canada.

“Have you ever thought about what we’re going to do after school? After all this?”

Ron hummed. “Not entirely sure. Maybe try out for a quidditch team? I dunno’ I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Same. I mean, I wanted to be an auror, but…”

“Why the but?”

“I’m always fighting, always. I mean, look, you’re walking me to the potions classroom to have my mind torn apart by a man who hates me for god knows what reason. There’s a woman in this school, government approved, who is torturing me and who knows how many other students.” She sighed, eyes flickering shut for a moment. “I just want to find somewhere quiet to settle down, maybe just a little house in the forest.”

“A little house in the forest, huh? Gonna’ get a unicorn or something to hang about out front?”

“Nah, thought I’d transfigure it into some sort of creature and put legs underneath, pretend I’m Babayaga. Ministry already hates me, might as well embrace it.”

Whistling, Ron stuck his hands in his pockets. “Don’t listen to ‘em. We both know how full of himself Fudge is. I mean, Sirius? Right?”

“Again, blame Snape for that.”

“Yeah.” His nose wrinkled. “What a prick.”

“Understatement of the century, Ron. He tried to get him killed - worse than killed - for some reason I still haven’t figured out.”

“Just don’t piss him off, you know, more than you usually do.”

Catherine slapped him on the back. “I’ll try my best not to. Honestly, I don’t even really try to do anything. He just has an out for me.”

“You always say that.”

“Well,  _ doesn’t he?” _ She threw her hands up. “I have no idea what the hell it is, but he’s hated me since day one. ‘ _ Fame isn’t everything, _ ’ the snarky ass. I didn’t even know I was a witch until two weeks before class.”

“What!” Ron stopped, staring at her. “You had no idea?”

“No! Not a clue. I thought I told you that?”

“You said you were raised by muggles, not that you didn’t even know you were a witch. That’s… wow.”

“I thought everyone knew that. Shit. Wasn’t it abundantly clear that I had no idea  _ what was going on? _ I didn’t even know I was famous until the first time I went to Diagon Alley and got mobbed by everyone.”

“No, everyone just thought you knew. I mean, your family are awful, but I thought they at least told you  _ something.” _

“Not a word.”

“Damn.”

“Now you know why I hate him. First couple of days here and he’s berating me for no apparent reason,” Catherine grumbled as they grew closer to the classroom, rubbing at her scarred knuckles. “He’s just an ass.”

Ron shushed her. “Gettin’ close, don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“Thanks dad.”

“Gross.” He stuck out his tongue. “Never call me that.”

“Alright, mother.”

“Seriously Cat! Weird.” Ron paused, gesturing with his head toward the door. “Well, here we are.”

Catherine stopped for a moment before hugging him. “Thanks for the chat, I needed that.”

“Chat?” he echoed, shocked.

She startled herself. Catherine wasn’t exactly the hugging type.

“Company, whatever you want to call it.” She patted him on the back. “I’ve been feeling a bit trapped in my head lately.”

“Hey,” he said, pulling away. “Don’t need to thank me for that. It’s what friends do, right? Well, I haven’t always been the  _ best  _ friend, last year n’ all, but you know - I try.”

“Yes, you do try. I’ll be fine from here, don’t bother Hermione too much back in the common room.”

“I’ll see you later then? By the fire?”

“I’ll see you and Hermione later, yes. It’s not like he’s going to kill me and use me as ingredients.”

“I dunno’, that sounds like him.”

_ “Go.” _

“Alright!” Ron put his hands up “I’m going!”

Catherine laughed, waving. Just then, the door opened, Snape's face barely visible through the crack.

“We’re not doing your lessons in the hall, Potter. Get in here.”

Mentally grumbling, Catherine walked into the classroom, shutting the door behind her. “I didn’t plan on doing our lessons in the hall, also I’m…” she cast another tempus charm, “...five minutes early.”

“Quit your nattering,” Snape growled, looming across the room like a reaper, cloaked in black. “Now, Dumbledore  _ insisted  _ on me treating you easier, as he put it. Gone to complain, Potter? Didn’t get your way for once?”

She grit her teeth. “The only time I had visions was  _ after _ our sessions, seeing as you feel like smashing through my head like a jackhammer.”

“If you wish to learn, then you will _ learn. _ Enough, clear your mind.”

Catherine barely had a moment before she felt Snape tunneling at the edges of her mind, reflexively throwing up mental arms to stave him off. She could feel as he tried to snatch at her thoughts, greedy fingers scrabbling in the metaphysical dark and dragging lines through her skull.

His attack crashed against hastily cobbled together defences, her mind quaking with each and every burst of magic.

Trying her best to hold onto what she had learned in the past week, she shored them up as quickly as she could, focusing on a single thought.

Grass at the edge of the lake, poking out from the snow and seemingly unbothered by the cold that had slewn its neighbours. It had stood out to her the other day, nature standing in defiance of itself.

She focused on it with every inch of her being, how the tip fluttered angrily in the wind, held down by a blanket of white. Catherine could feel the cold of the snow biting at her warming charm, could hear as the wind whistled through the trees far beyond.

Just as suddenly as Snape had attacked, he retreated, studying her with a gleam in his eye. “Not terrible, for once.” He scowled. “Again.”

This time his strike was measured, pointed into a needle and terrible as it bore down upon her. Tears sprung to Catherine’s eyes, pain of the mind not something she had become accustomed to, not from a week spent with torn limbs and jagged cuts splitting open her belly.

The thought twisted her mind away from that solitary blade of grass, bringing to it visions of hunched wolves stalking across cobbled streets towards their prey.

Terrified, she pushed with all her might, Snape’s attack rebuffed and turned inward at his momentary surprise.

Her vision flooded with images of a young man - her father - accompanied by what could only be the Marauders.

Catherine watched as they attacked Snape, taunting him, berating him, humiliating him so thoroughly that the disgust that crept up her throat came from their laughter, not the sight of his scraggly legs and stained pants.

She gasped, tearing her eyes away from Snape and staring at the thin grooves that lay tracks across the stone. Her breath, laboured, was tinged with fear.

“What was that?” he stormed, wand gripped tight and still pointed at her, held level with her throat. “Potter. _What_ _was that?”_ __  
  


Catherine panted, hands pressed to her head as she tried to push the images away - the blood spattered streets of Yharnam too vivid, too frightful in their intensity.

It felt like she was back there, just for a moment, shrouded in darkness and surrounded by cold stone cast in the amber glow of torchlight.

Oh, how she feared it.

She could tell herself all day that it didn’t matter, that it was only a week spent surrounded by hellish spires, soaked in blood and grime and  _ screaming _ for it all to end.

But, she knew a lie when she heard it, even if it came from her own mouth.

When she was fighting she could ignore it, focus on the adrenaline and just  _ move. _ There was nothing to hinder her in those moments, no thoughts of despair plaguing her every step and leaving her to wonder if the next would be what led to her inevitable death.

After the blood had been spilled, that was a different matter - hair plastered to her dripping mask, leather painted crimson in her journey, she didn’t have the rush of the hunt flooding through her mind. Instead, she had to face the world she had found herself in, watching from the window of an abandoned home as beasts lumbered down the street, occasionally dragging someone with them.

She had seen what Gascoigne had spoken of, felt it as one of those giants swung at her with a blanketed corpse - the fabric stained in deep hues of red and dribbling its sweet ichor upon the flagstones.

“Potter!” Snape shouted, moving to grab her arm.

Catherine ducked away, sidling between two desks and holding tight to the table's edge. “So that’s why,” she growled, eyes flashing to the door. “That’s why you hate me.”

He hissed, wand held steady. “What was that I saw in your mind, Potter.  _ Tell me.” _

“Nightmares, alright? Werewolves. Happy?”

“No. There’s more to it. That was too vivid to be a dream.”

“You think Voldemort doesn’t attack me at night? He amplifies it all,” she lied, lip trembling - be it from fear or excitement, she didn’t know. “He gets in my head and he makes it all worse, which is why I’m  _ here.” _

His lip curled. “Don’t lie to me, Potter.”

“Why would I lie? You saw it, you were in my  _ head. _ But you- you…” she pointed at him, jaw clenched. “That’s why you torment me? That’s why, from day one, you’ve done nothing but attack me? Because my dad was a prick teenager?”

“He was far worse than that.”

“Doesn’t give you an excuse,  _ Snape. _ I’m not my dad, and I never will be, maybe because the bastard who keeps slipping into my bloody head  _ murdered him. _ ”

“I said  _ don’t lie to me.”  _ He stood over her, even from only ten paces away he seemed too tall, too wrathful. “No werewolf I have ever seen has looked like that.”

“Nightmares! It’s a damned nightmare!”

His wrist shook, the only sign of his impending attack, and she realized in that split second that he had been easy with her.

Catherine shrieked as he broke through her defences as if they were naught but paper, bringing to light all her sordid dreams.

An antlered beast, so terrible as it screamed into the dark. A man laying before her, blood pulsing in waves out of the hole in his skull just as it poured from her chest, hoisted onto the back of a white haired doctor. A woman plagued by the blood, hair creeping down her cheeks and desperately hammering at her rifle.

She could feel each and every death as if they had just happened, open wounds on every inch of her body burning with such a ferocity that she thought that this would be what truly killed her. Catherine howled, so high and frightful that it seemed to shake the walls, but a few steps away from shattering the vials that lined the room like those in the clinic - stoppered with cork and filled to the brim with festering viscera.

Snape retreated from her mind with a shout, hands buried in his hair and a pained groan slipping from his lips.

_ He saw, he saw it all, _ was Catherine’s only thought, laid prone upon the floor and her chest heaving with every breath. Her gaze was muddied with tears, arms trembling as she tried to hoist herself up, to just  _ get out. _

She would have to run, flee, get anywhere but Hogwarts. Get somewhere safe before they had her locked up in a padded room, gibbering quietly and tucked into the corner like last week's rubbish.

If only Snape wasn’t blocking her path.

“You just couldn’t leave me alone, could you?” she seethed, low and weak. “You just  _ had to know _ what goes on in little Potters mind.”

“I couldn’t have possibly…” Snape gasped, spitting on the floor. “I thought- ”

“You don’t! You don’t ever think! Catherine Potter, just like her father? Catherine Potter, saviour of Britain? You don’t ever stop to  _ think! _ You just assume everything about me!”

He glanced up at her and all she saw was confusion. “Potter… I-  _ what was that?” _

“Nightmares.”

Snape steadied himself on one of the desks, weakly pointing at the door. “Go.”

“You’re going to tell Dumbledore all about this.”

“Of course I am, you stupid girl.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You’re threatening me?” he laughed, the noise hoarse, unfamiliar, as if he had forgotten how it was supposed to sound.

“The nightmares, Snape, they’re awful. Please- I just… I can’t- Dumbledore can’t know. He just can’t know how bad they are.”

“And why not? Are you not here because of them?”

Catherine rested her back against the wall, knees weak. “Because it would destroy him, to know how bad they are.”

“You dream of dying, vividly,” he huffed, looking at her with what seemed to be pity. “Dumbledore must know of this, whether you want him to or not.”

“No.”

“I seem to recall telling you to  _ get out, _ Potter.”

“I said  _ no.” _

“And I said  _ now.” _ He raised his wand again. “Do not make me remove you forcefully.”

For a moment, Catherine felt tempted to take out her wand and obliviate him, remove those memories - whether her lie was believed or not. But she could see the way his shoulder had set, hand still as death as she stared him down.

It wasn’t a fight she could win.

Catherine left, slamming the door shut as forcefully as she could, her mind swimming with thoughts of escape.

_ If he doesn’t believe me… _ A laugh slipped from her throat, broken and scared.  _ What then? _

_ If he does not believe you, then you must make plans. _

Catherine growled to herself as she stomped through the halls. “You’ve destroyed my life.”

_ I have destroyed many lives. _

Another laugh, more shattered than the last. Catherine crept toward the common room with laboured steps, wondering what Dumbledore would make of her ‘nightmares.’

She couldn’t handle any more pity.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I just don’t know what to do.”


	9. Chapter Nine | Manic Phases

“No, that’s not how it works,” Catherine argued, tired beyond belief.

She had easily forgotten her tasteless meal debating with Hermione whether or not a warming charm required an upward flick of the wand or a counter-clockwise turn to be most effective. The two of them sat bickering over their plates while Ron hastily made his escape, offering a gruff ‘goodbye’ as he damn near ran for the door.

“Merrigold  _ clearly states _ that the magic must be moulded by  _ this pattern,”  _ Hermione retorted, jabbing her finger at the bit of parchment she’d pulled from her bag and sketched an arithmantic circle over - almost unrecognizable runes dotting its flanks. “Therefore an upward flick is the best choice.”

“For a short burst of warmth, yes, but it doesn’t last as long nor plateau for as long that way.” Catherine snatched the parchment, hand waving at Hermione’s quill.   
  
Huffing, Hermione gave it to her, watching as Catherine jotted down another circle, strange letters weaving around it that she had never seen before.

“What are those?”

“Huh?” Catherine looked over the paper. “What are what?”

“Those runes, whatever you want to call them. That’s not taught in class.”

Staring at the page, Catherine suddenly realized that she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d learned them. Strange, jagged shapes that more resembled cuneiform than any latin script.

They just seemed to make sense to her, eyes passing over them as if they were standard English.   
  
“It’s… Yharmit,” she said, and knew it to be true. “It was in a book I found, written by a scholar named Gascoigne. He listed off his reasons for it, namely that  _ this,  _ and  _ this,” _ Catherine listed, punctuating her words by tapping the quill against the symbols. “Show that if you utilize a counter-clockwise turn the heat will not be as warm initially, but will last longer and peak longer as well.”

“Where did you find the book?”

“Er- Forbidden Section.”

_ “Cat, _ you can’t go sneaking in there for… for what?”

“I do have an incredibly powerful madman who’s tried to kill me almost every year I’ve been here.”

Crossing her arms, Hermione bit her lip, looking off to the side. She seemed to argue with herself for a few seconds, glaring at the floor.

“What if it’s not safe? What if something in there just- just blows you up?” Hermione threw her arms in the air, mimicking an explosion. Her gaze, tinged with something implacable, bored into Catherine. “You can’t mess with runes if you don’t know what you’re doing. No offense.”

“I’ll… I’ll ask Dumbledore about it.” She turned to the staff table, eyes ghosting over Dumbledore. “I think he’ll want to talk to me again tonight.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” she stated unequivocally, nary a twitch of the eyelid signalling her blatant lie. Lies came naturally to her, slipping from her lips with the grace of a dancer and alighting upon her friends ears with horrifying ease.

Of course, she knew  _ they _ knew she lied, but not how often - nor how severely.

Some secrets she kept close, not the easy frustration she wore on her sleeve and brazen indifference toward her own safety that even the first years saw and recognized. Instead it was her insecurities, deep-rooted fears, thoughts she couldn’t comfortably share with another person lest they see her as mentally invalid.

Yet more pity, then.

Hermione smiled at her, and whether it was the light or her own rabid mind, Catherine saw frustration.

“You alright?” she asked, almost on reflex.

“Yes, I’m fine, just- a bit tired after that little debate.” Hermione raised one finger.  _ “But, _ that doesn’t mean I don’t stand by what I said. Unless those fancy new runes of yours can be properly translated into Egyptian or Norse, then that means that the formula is unfounded.”

Catherine sighed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “Of course, of course. I’ll remind myself that you are never to be bested when it comes to academics.”

She laughed in return. “Obviously.”

“And obviously, I shall never forget. Also, seems it's getting a bit late," she added, pointing at the enchanted ceiling.

“It's winter, it's looked like that for an hour… are you going to head up for D.A. soon?” Hermione asked, pushing her plate away and grabbing her bag.

“Yeah, think I’ll head up in a few and get ready. Seven tonight?”

Grimacing, Hermione nodded. “That Inquisitorial Squad… how awful can you be?”

“Never underestimate what people are capable of. But them? Trust me, with what we’ve dealt with over the years, those simpering twits are practically kittens. Just don't corner them, don't give them  _ any  _ reason to use force."

“I know, it’s just so  _ frustrating.” _

Aching, Catherine stood up, stepping over the bench only to flinch as she heard the steady  _ clack _ of footsteps approaching her. She turned to see McGonagall striding purposefully in her direction, hands held behind her back and a nearly imperceptible smile on her face.

“Professor?”

“Miss Potter, Miss Granger,” she said, nodding at the two of them before directing her attention to Catherine. “Professor Dumbledore requested to speak with you, and said he’ll be waiting in his office.” She glanced at the students before leaning closer and whispering. “I’m happy to see the two of you speaking, you're both looking healthier for it. Also, he has found himself fond of Jelly Babies as of late.”

With another prim nod, she walked away, silencing a few patrons of the Slytherin table with a pointed glare.

“Wow,” Hermione uttered. “I’ve never seen her so- ”   
  
“Human?”

“Quiet.” She poked Catherine in the arm. “That’s our professor.”

“Be honest though, she’s never been so friendly with us before. I think she might actually like us.”

“Maybe? But, the poor woman, most of those gray hairs must be our fault.”

“Or Fred and George.”

Tutting, she inclined her head. “True.”

“Speaking of… have you seen them about lately? I thought they were messing about with the first years, but I haven’t heard anything from the two of them in a week now.”

“Don’t bring that up, please. I try to do as much as I can to stop them from taking advantage of the newer students.”

“I’m not going there. Trust me. I refuse to touch that topic even if my life depends on it.”

“You just did, and that’s not much better than laughing at the kids. Lots of them are muggleborn, they have no idea what they’re accepting, nor how dangerous it is.”

Catherine patted Hermione on the back, directing the two of them to the stairs. “I know. How about I have a conversation with them if I get the chance. Can find ‘em pretty quickly with the map and all.”

“Would you do that for me?” Hermione asked, looking unsure. “I don’t want to ruin your friendship, but they- I just- ”   
  
“Trust me. I’ll speak with them. I  _ am _ responsible for almost all of their capital anyways, means I get a say in how their research is done.”

Smiling at her, Hermione squeezed Catherine’s arm. “Thank you.”

“Yeah- uh, no problem. No problem at all.”

Looking away, she kept her mouth shut as they traversed the halls, doing her best to hide the blush she  _ knew _ had plastered itself to her face like an angry tick.

One of these days her behaviour was going to be noticed, and Catherine wasn’t sure she could face that. Being forced out of the closet kicking and screaming wasn’t on her list of things she was particularly eager to experience, rather hoping to do it on her own terms after she’d finally gathered the damned courage.

It wasn’t that magicals were particularly bigoted toward those who played for the same team, but they weren’t keen on it either. It was seen as unignorable, different, a quirk of character rather than just who the person was, and who they loved.

On the other hand, Catherine found herself more than happy to not be relegated to the muggle world, forced to listen to Vernon spout vitriol so sickening that even the words themselves sent her into creeping fits of nausea.

The hate he felt was something almost miraculous in its intensity - a man who somehow felt beset on all sides by ne’er-do-wells left stricken with anger at the delusions his imagination had wrought.

Petunia seemed almost uncaring, every fibre of her being carrying a jaded ambivalence that seemed to permeate those around her, inflicting them with the same miasma of passive envy that hung off her back like chains.

Dudley… well, Dudley was a product of his upbringing.

Brash to a fault, yet not bearing the sense of self to often reflect on his own actions, nor the happenings of the world around him. Although, there was an inkling of something different that Catherine had seen in him on that frigid summers night back in Surrey, the creeping chill of beings that by all accounts had no place in this world.

She often thought that Dementors must have come from somewhere else, a place far from Earth and terrible beyond imagining.

Nowadays, she thought them of Yharnam. A city that breathed despair as readily as air, feeding off its own inhabitants with wild abandon.

“Cat, are you there?”

“Hmm?” She blinked rapidly, noticing the two of them had made it to the seventh floor. “Yeah, sorry, checked out for a minute there.”

“It terrifies me that you can walk on moving staircases without even realizing how you got there.”

“No need to worry about me. I sincerely doubt a staircase is what's going to do me in.”

Not like one hadn’t already, tripping down steps slick with blood, choked wails pouring from her throat as the teeth of a saw blade stuttered and hitched as they pulled through her spine.

“I always worry about you.”

Her breath caught, a stammered “Thank you,” slipping out of her as she tried to calm her beating heart.

“You need to start taking more care of yourself, okay?” Hermione’s gaze was stern, yet soft in its own. “I know you haven’t been sleeping much lately, I’ve woken up to hear you going around the common room at all odd hours, and unless I was such a light sleeper I doubt I’d have noticed. Stop  _ hiding things,  _ Cat. I care about you. Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny, they all do too.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’m just trying to say… you haven’t been yourself lately. I don’t know, but you feel distant.”

“Distant,” she echoed.

“Yes. I… keep it in mind, please? And if you ever need to chat, remember that I’m here.” Hermione finished her statement by laying her hand on Catherines shoulder and squeezing it, sending her heart stuttering away once more.

_ Damnit, _ Catherine thought, collecting herself and turning to the statue that stood guard over Dumbledore’s office.  _ Here we go. _

She didn’t know what would happen in there, trying to distract herself with memories of her relatives. Hate was familiar, hate was known, and its intimacy was almost soothing.

“Jelly Babies,” she stated, the statue grinding quietly as it began to twist upward.

Taking the step, she allowed it to carry her toward his office, tongue flitting across her cracking lips. She raised her wand, casting a spell to soothe them as she was brought higher, until she found herself standing in front of a short corridor ending in a plain door.

“Please, come in Catherine.”

Jittery, she walked into the office, immediately assaulted by the nearly silent cacophony of whirring machines and miniature artifacts hissing smoke and cool air across the room.

“I’ve had some tea brought up, if you’d like some?”

She sat down, taking the offered cup with a muted, “Thanks.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, only disturbed by the occasional  _ tick tock _ of the nearby grandfather clock standing indominatably next to the many bookcases that circled round the office.

Catherine sipped at her tea, mainly to stem the rising fear that bubbled deep inside her. She tried (and failed) to savour it, instead hardly aware as the scalding liquid burned its way down her throat, leaving tender flesh in its wake.

“So, Professor Snape spoke with me the other day about something quite distressing.”

“I… yeah, I imagined he would.”

“Catherine.” Dumbledore set his cup down, brow pinched as he leaned onto the table, hands clasped neatly together. “Voldemort stepping into your mind like this, inflicting you with terrible nightmares… this is precisely what your lessons are supposed to help stop.”

“I know. I…” she bit her lip, remembering to throw up some semblance of a shield around her mind - enough to notice if anything so much as tickled it. “I thought I could deal with it. It's not like I don’t have nightmares already - with Cedric, the Dementors… I’ve always had them.”

His expression fell. “Always?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m beyond sorry to hear that. I thought… I hoped that things were not so bad. How often do you have these nightmares?”

Her fingers tightened around the porcelain handle, mind racing for a sufficient answer. Something to calm him, something to say that would get her out of the office.

“I haven’t had any for a week now, maybe a bit longer, but before that it was almost every day.”

“You’ve not had any? None?”

“No, I don’t know if it's the occlumency lessons, or if he’s just let up - but no, I haven’t had any.”

“Odd.” Dumbledore squinted, his thinking almost audible. “Very odd.”

“Why?”

He seemed to pause, studying her. Dumbledore worked his jaw, the movement minute. “Your occlumency has gotten quite a bit better from what I have heard, but I… hazard to guess that this isn’t a result of those lessons, no offense intended of course. Occlumency is a difficult art to learn at best, and hideously complicated at worst, the strides you’ve made within the last week alone have been more than impressive.”

“But it isn’t enough.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not quite. Have you dreamt of anything lately, anything odd that you can recall?”

“Nothing, really. I tend to forget my dreams right after I wake up anyways, they just sort of go wherever.” Catherine’s hand fluttered in the air like a sheet of paper caught by the wind. “The only ones I tend to remember are the bad ones.”

And the very good ones, though, she imagined that was a topic neither of them wanted to breach.

“So then, you believe he’s stopped? For reasons unknown?”

“I don’t know. I hope, I really hope he has, but I know that he just may come back with a vengeance. For all I know this is his attempt to get my guard down, get me worried for when he does start up again.”

Dumbledore nodded sagely. “It does make sense. Have you been well, though? After our last run-in I can’t help but be worried about you. You were quite a fright to behold.”

“I felt wrong that day. Off.” Catherine shifted in her chair, eyes flickering to the bookshelves. “I’ll be honest, Professor, things have been stressful. Mister Weasley getting attacked, Voldemort getting into my head, Cedric… I- I can’t… it’s just been one thing after another. It’s  _ always _ one thing after another, and I think it’s starting to catch up with me.

“Every year there’s some new, terrible thing waiting to attack me. I don’t understand why, at least, not fully. What with the whole… you know.” Her mouth twisted, lips pulled inward, before being released with a sharp exhale. “I mean… we have Umbridge running around the place and I  _ know _ you know what she’s doing to the students. These things just  _ keep happening.” _

Frowning, Dumbledore tilted his head. “Umbridge?”

She frowned. “What? You don’t know?”

“Catherine,” he repeated, expression growing frosty. “What has she been doing to the students?”

“A Black Quill. She’s been using it on me, at least,” she said, unwrapping the bandages on her hand.

Dumbledore gasped as she revealed the fresh wounds, scar tissue still yet to settle against the pinkened flesh. It had worked furrows into her knuckles, puckered shapes that hardly resembled writing anymore. Instead they were deep sores, frayed lines of angry red splayed out about the bored flesh like spiderwebs, cracked and peeling.

_ “Catherine,” _ he uttered, aghast. “She did this to you?”

“I- yeah. Yes, she did. I just- I can deal with this, Dumbledore, but the other students can’t. I- ”   
  
“No.  _ No. _ You  _ cannot _ just ‘deal with this.’ This is torture, it is  _ obscene.” _ He stood up, bristling. “I have half the mind to- ”   
  
_ “Dumbledore.  _ Please.”

Catherine’s words stopped him, an almost palpable magic rolling off him in waves. It filled the room, stifling in its intensity.

He took a few deep breaths, hand trembling against the surface of his desk as he lowered himself down. Catherine had never seen him so troubled, his eyes hard as stone and shoulders tensed as if to fight.

She imagined he planned to do just that.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but don’t do anything rash. If you get sent away from Hogwarts… things will get bad. Very bad. She already has her little squad running about causing havoc, nobody has learned a damned thing in her class and I  _ know _ it’s purposeful. The Ministry is corrupt, and she’s the walking talking image of it.”

Dumbledore sighed loudly, warming up his tea with a tap of the finger and bringing the cup to his lips. “You’re quite right in that. Please, forgive me, it’s unbecoming for a Professor, let alone the Headmaster to act so rashly in front of a student. Even if it is you,” he added, smiling faintly. “As soon as this chat is over, I believe I’ll find myself contacting the Ministry. I imagine the Aurors would have something to say about her actions.”

“Thank you, and god, for some reason I thought you knew,” she admitted.

Hurt passed over his features, eyes crinkling at her words. “Never would I allow such a thing to happen within these halls, and I refuse to allow it to continue.”   
  
“No- I’m sorry, I don’t mean- ”   
  
“I understand,” he interrupted, raising his hand. “I’ve not been an excellent Headmaster in the time that you’ve been here, nor do I think I’ve been one before that.”

"Professor, you don't mean that."

"I do. Very much so." Dumbledore removed his glasses, tapping the hinge against his desk. He smiled to himself, morose and so tired that Catherine, for the first time, recognized how truly  _ old _ he was.

"Professor- "

"Albus. Please. I think I owe you that much, don't you?"

"You don't owe me anything."

"Oh, but I do. Your time here at Hogwarts hasn't resembled anything remotely safe. Your first year, your second, third, fourth…" he trailed off, setting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose with crooked fingers. "Well, as long-winded as this little speech may already seem, I have not done well by you nor the rest of the students. No danger should ever befall a child, particularly not one brought about by my own transgressions."

"Prof- er, Albus? What do you mean?"

"I'm sure you've always had questions as to why these 'things,' as you put it, keep occuring. It seems it's due to my own ineptitude." He looked up from the scattered papers and steaming cup, eyes locking onto Catherine's. "I don't believe anyone at Hogwarts, except for Severus, has ever questioned my judgement in addressing the various problems that arise in a school such as this, hectic as it may be.

"Take, for example, your first year. I knew Voldemort was on the move, and I knew that the Philosopher's Stone would not be safe from him at Gringotts. As much as the Goblins boast about their security, the true threat lies in their political power. Take away the fear of retribution and add a sufficiently wily sorcerer to the mix, and you have a disaster waiting to happen."

"So you brought it here."

"So I brought it here… an incredibly foolish, downright maddening decision in retrospect. A treasure such as that in a school of all places. Well, it just may have ended in tragedy."

Catherine felt her world stutter, realization striking her like a hammer would an anvil, terrible in its strength. "He could have killed any of us, at any time, and there would have been nothing we could have really done."

“Quirrel may have surely tried such a thing, but the  _ possibility  _ of it alone and my allowance of it is one of my greatest regrets.”

“And if students died?”

“I don’t know, Catherine. I couldn’t tell you. I’m repeating myself, but for longer than I can remember no one has questioned me, just Severus… and you.”

_ “Me?” _

“Yes. You. Quite headstrong, I would say, but you remind me of myself at your age.” He smirked, as if he had told a particularly clever joke. “The Wizengamot, the International Confederation… it is only within the last few years that I have come to recognize the weight of my words and the impact they have had on this world, for better or worse.”

“Albus… why are you telling me all this?”

He rapped his fingers across the tabletop, drumming out an off-kilter beat. “Because I hope you can learn from my mistakes and not follow the path I have walked. I’ve always done what I felt was best, but... therein lies the issue. It was what  _ I _ felt was best. Not the census of the masses, no rationale given to me by any advisor. I pointed, spoke, and it happened.”

“That’s…” Catherine couldn’t gather the words to describe such an immense level of power. “Horrifying.”

“It is. Yet I wielded it quite comfortably. What do you believe that says about me?”

“Professor- ”   
  
“Albus.”

“A- Albus… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, elbows propped upon the armrests and fingers linked. “I want you to be honest.”

_ Remember mine words, child. Unless you wish to fall into the sea, choking upon your own misery, then you must risk thine secrecy for the teachings of a mentor. _

“It means you enjoy power, to a degree where you don’t question having so much of it.”

“Precisely, and this is a shortcoming of my own that I can recognize. But you, Catherine, you don’t want power. You do not seek it out. In fact, I would consider it a rejection of power, how you distance yourself from your fame and standing. That is one of the many things that I admire about you. Your selflessness.”

“Thank you, that- that does mean a lot to me.” She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing the ragged locks. “I just want to be  _ me, _ you know? I’m tired of people seeing the idea of me, whatever they’ve built up in their mind.”

“Alas, so would I, but it’s not often that people of fame attain such a thing. To be forever idolized, yet never recognized.” Dumbledore cast his eyes to the clock, humming as he read it. “Thank you for chatting with me, Catherine, although, I do believe you have a meeting to attend to. I hope to continue these little talks of ours, if you would be willing?”

“Sure, yeah, that works for me.”

She didn’t comment on his knowledge of the D.A., finding herself unsurprised that the Headmaster knew of the goings-on in the Room of Requirement.

He was able to speak with the portraits after all.

Just as Catherine stood to leave, Dumbledore put out his hand. “Catherine, before you go would you do me a favour?”

“Er- what is it?”

“I’d simply like to cast a spell on you, to check the link between yourself and Voldemort. With your permission, of course.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine.”

Dumbledore’s wrist twisted oddly, wand forming maddening patterns in the air as he mumbled, intently focused on the invisible magic pouring out of him. The air almost shimmered with it, like a heat mirage, distortions and strange shapes contorting Catherine’s view of the room.

Just as soon as he had begun, Dumbledore stopped, a strange look on his face. “I… thank you very much Catherine, you can be off now.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, just fine. Please,” he gestured toward the door. “I’d rather you not be late.”

Catherine nodded shakily, feeling slightly incredulous as she shuffled out of his office, unable to fathom the sudden shift in Dumbledore’s attitude.   
  
_ What on earth? _

Her feet carried her downward, hurried steps pattering against the stone and echoing along the narrow tube that housed her.

_ The man has seen something strange and worrisome. _

_ Of course he has, _ she retorted, grimacing.  _ I’m kind of freaking out here. _

_ Do not fret over something that can no longer be changed. It is beyond you now. _

Practically snarling, Catherine blocked off her mind, hurrying to the Room of Requirement. If anything could carry her thoughts away from the shifting tides of Dumbledore’s mood, it would be the D.A. sessions.

Though, she had found herself worrying as of late that they would notice something - not as accustomed to her own mood turning on a sixpence.

Stifling a sigh, Catherine swept into the room, lucky enough to still be a few minutes early.

She offered a smile and a wave to the few that had arrived early. Hermione, Ron, Luna, the Creevey Brothers (terrible overeager, she thought), and Terry Boot.

“Hey,” she said, tossing her bag into the corner. “Everyone doing alright?”

“Yup.” Ron pointed at the training dummies, carved form bearing the image of robes and grinning masks. “Got everything set up for ya’.”

“That’s great. I’m just going to warm up a bit.”

Catherine walked past them, shucking off her robes and flinging them next to her bag, muscles quivering as she palmed her wand.

Her magic felt full to the brim, hissing angrily and screaming to be let out. Her time in Yharnam had felt like being sent away over the summer hols, having to keep the magic she loved kept bridled, hidden from her family and the creeping eyes of the Ministry.

But even after returning and being reunited with her wand, that missing key always hissing quietly from the edge of her mind, she couldn’t help but feel that her classes weren’t quite enough.

Catherine needed magic like any other witch or wizard. It was something integral, prided and precious - but even moreso for her, having lived so much of her life unaware of its very existence. 

The tip of her wand sparked as she unleashed a flurry of non-lethal charms and hexes at the dummy, arm punching and whirling in chaotic patterns as she cast as furiously and quickly as she could.

Her teeth worried at her lip as she chained spells together as efficiently as she could, remembering the way Voldemort had spun one spell into another that awful night in the graveyard. The power he exhibited that night was terrifying, wand held almost lazily and his magic answering to his every silent call, no matter the spell nor target.

It was only when their two spells connected and that feeble, sparking line of gold drew them together that Voldemort showed an inkling of worry. Even then, it was but a fraction of fear - if it could even be named such - instead confusion at something he had never seen before.

Catherine didn’t imagine new and confusing things came easy to him, with the nightmarish life that man must have led.

Teeth bared, her movements grew more frantic as the memory of Cedrics falling corpse pushed its way to the forefront of her mind.

Cedric was the first person she had ever told about herself, about the feelings that she kept locked up deep inside.

He had asked her to the ball, and god, she was flattered, but it wasn’t enough. They sat and chatted, Catherine holding tightly to that fledgling spark of friendship that had grown since the first task and praying it didn’t fly from her grasp.

The truth was the only way she could see that happening.

Like always, Cedric was kind, painfully so. In fact, he was excited for her, throwing out immediate suggestions of who to bring.  _ ‘Cho, Cho Chang? You know her?’ _ he had asked.  _ ‘She’s out, you know. Not really loud about it, but she’s out.’ _

Catherine, of course, could only laugh at his sudden vomit of potential dates - a thousand names pouring from his mouth and none of them the one she pined for. She instead shook her head, offering the one idea that came to mind.  _ ‘How about we go as friends? You and me?’ _

He thought on it, promising to get back to her - and in the end it was Cho he ended up taking to the ball, an apologetic smile on his face. Catherine didn’t hold it against him, Cho was gorgeous, stunning, worthy of a hundred words to describe her beauty, yet she felt nothing for her.

Neville had linked arms with her that night, happy to come along as a friend and none too interested in whatever reasons for it she kept secret.   
  
Then, six months later, Cedric died - his body smeared in mud, clothes torn, and cuts strewn across bare skin. Catherine dragged him back to Hogwarts with his eyes fogged and body cold, his father screaming over an empty corpse.

They were friends of a strange breed, having no close ties yet sharing with each other the world. Strangers did that, she thought, told each other things that they wouldn’t tell another living soul. Because where was the fear when she had only known him for a few months? When he would be gone from Hogwarts not soon after that?

She never imagined he would keep her secret so permanently.

With that, she stopped, the dummy's limbs barely hanging on and the wood it was conjured of splintered beyond recognition.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Catherine turned to face the class, hoping that everyone had shown up by now.

They had, and instead of gathering to their places they had sat and watched as she tore the wooden figure to pieces. Some of them wore expressions of awe, others worried at her frantic display.

“Hey!” she called out cheerfully, at least, hoping it sounded something close to cheerful. “Sorry about that, been a long week.”

And then Catherine passed out.


	10. Chapter Ten | The Pipes, the Pipes Are Calling

Thin sheets and the impassive face of the Doll were what met Catherine upon opening her eyes, nausea gripping her throat with slippery fingers as she realized she was back in Yharnam.

“No, no,” she muttered, closing her eyes and wishing it to all just _go away._ “Please, god, tell me I’m not back.”

“You were gone but a moment, Catherine. Whatever do you speak of?”

Catherine threw the sheets away, having been garbed in her armour between the blink of an eye and the next. “I went back home, I thought… I hoped-”

“You returned? Back to your strange home?” The Doll tilted her head pensively.

“Yes. Back to my strange home. I just-” Catherine patted herself down, checking for her weapons and the various tools that she’d picked up the last time she was here. _“Wait.”_

Her wand.

Awe creeping into her veins, Catherine’s hand trembled as she drew the wand from her breast pocket, for the first time in weeks feeling some level of poisonous hope building up inside her.

“Is that-?”  
  
“My wand.”

The Doll, for all her glassy skin, looked even paler in that moment. “Oh.”

“Are you afraid?”

She shook her head. “I cannot feel fear. I cannot feel much, if anything. Only my love for you hunters.”

Catherine froze, recalling the last time they had spoken. “Love?” she whispered. “I remember.”

“I would certainly hope so,” the Doll remarked with an unearthly smile on her face. “I... have heard many things from the hunters who have walked this Dream. They have told me of the Church, of their love for the gods. But, would the gods love their own creations?” She smoothed out her skirt, the two of them locking eyes. “Humans created me. Would you ever think to love me? The love I hold for you, is that not how you made me?”

“I don’t- no. I don’t think I could.”

Her stomach swam at the thought of it, regarding this… _thing_ as some sort of companion. Some sort of friend.

“Oh.”

“I don’t- I really don’t want to make friends here. I don’t want to make _anything_. I just want to figure a way out of this nightmare and stay home.”

“That is… understandable.”

“It’s nothing against you,” she deflected, and could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth, comforting some sort of magical construct. “I’ve seen this world, seen it for what it is, and there’s nothing good for me here. The sooner I can be done with it all, the better.”

“Then I imagine that will be all,” the Doll said, offering her a short bow. “I will be off.”

Catherine sat and watched as she left, fingers trembling as she stopped herself from waving goodbye. She had never been good at hurting others, not with words.

A punch, a slap… those were easy, but cutting remarks were something she held for people who thought only to attack her.

Draco, Snape, Umbridge, Voldemort. For some reason she felt comfortable running her mouth in front of them, even if it meant imminent punishment. But to those who did nothing to deserve her words?

It killed her inside, no matter how necessary they were.

“What frightening behaviour. Though, I imagine that creature deserves no less.”

“Gehrman,” Catherine uttered, glancing in his direction.

He wheeled towards her, gnarled hands skipping across the worn treads. “No hello? How do you do? I must not have made an apt impression when we last spoke. Though, judging by the garb you now wear you’ve taken to Yharnam quite comfortably.”

“Not comfortably, but I always adapt. It’s kept me alive so far.”

_“Adapt,_ she says, as if this were the wilderness.” He leaned forward, hands resting on his cane. “Will you then be off to the forest? Romping about with a tent and fire, a rabbit twirling on the spit?”

Ignoring him, Catherine rummaged through her pockets, drawing out one of the many strange, bloody stones she had happened across in the city. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What are these?”

Glaring at her, his lip curled. “Bloodstone. Very useful, very strong, and frightfully difficult to work with. Why, your weapons were made with the very same stuff. Just a touch, mind you, but enough to work.”

“So… what do I do with it then?”

“Forge it into your weapon, you twit.”

_“How.”_

He pointed at the workbench at the side of the room. “A personal trick. Here, I’ll show you.”

Not one to refuse help, Catherine stood up and followed him to the table. He kicked at a pedal behind his ankles, the seat of his chair rising on hidden pistons.

“Can’t reach the damned top otherwise,” he groused, meeting her stare. “Here, hand me your spear.”

Slipping the weapon off her back, Catherine gave it to the man, dropping the few shards of bloodstone she had on the table.

She watched as he took a bottle of what looked like molten silver, pouring the substance into a short glass before dropping the shards into it. In an instant they began to melt, mingling with the liquid and staining it a deep red.

Gehrman moved the spear - quite handily Catherine thought, for a man so frail - fixing it to a vice. “This part must come quickly, before the quicksilver and the bloodstone fuses entirely,” he stated, pouring the mix over the length of the blade. Quickly, he loosened the vice and turned the spear over, evenly coating the other side of the blade.

His hands moved rapidly as he snatched up a copper blowtorch, muttering something under his breath as he pulled the handle shut. Flames spurted from the end, vibrant blue and hissing wildly as they danced over the spear.

Flinching, Catherine stared down at the torch, confused when she didn’t find herself blinded by the fire.

“That’s hotter than a welders torch.”

“A welder?” Gehrman asked, not looking up from his work.

“Type of metalworker. Neighbour is a builder, welder, talks with my Uncle about it all the time.”

“And what do these welders do, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Weld? They do something to fuse metal together.”

“Excellent, that means you understand the basis of this. Now shut up and watch.”

And so she did, eyes keen as Gehrman expertly coated the blade in flames, even strokes working across the metal as if a painter's brush - each dash clean and confident, the mixture sparking before being absorbed into the steel itself.

“Fascinating.”

“Quiet,” he barked, though his words, for once, held no venom.

How long had it been since he’d last had a visitor in the Dream, she wondered? Someone or something besides the Doll herself?

Catherine knew Eileen had been a dreamer, once upon a time, but the woman - by the sound of her voice, thick with gravel - was old, much older than any Hunter had the right to be. Even Gascoigne, a man seemingly thirty years of age bore hair white as snow, something she was learning to be quite common in a city wherein stress was the least troublesome of emotions.

Did people long before agriculture, or upon the inception of such, look as pallid and broken as Yharnam’s inhabitants? She couldn’t imagine the wear that settled heavy on their minds, unable to feel safe walking the streets let alone rest within their own homes.

But the night seemed different here. Indefinite. Something strange and withered that left her unsettled and feeling as though she had been trapped in a waking nightmare.  
  
Because no night could be as dark or long as this one, a sentient terror that sank its awful and unfeeling claws into the city. No night could bring with it such a terrible sense of danger when held clean between walls that, by all means, were that of a fortress.

Perhaps it was because the city was anything but, instead a prison fashioned by its own inmates, forced into it by dire need of a medicine that they knew (because of course, they must know) would turn them into the very beasts that stalked their bloodied streets.

So Catherine watched as Gehrman forged anew her crooked blade, the teeth lining its edge appearing to be that much sharper - be it from a trick of the light or the melted stone that it had drank as greedily as she would one of those many foggy vials.

“How does it form? The bloodstone. Can it be mined?”

“Mined?” He chuckled, flicking off the torch and stowing it back atop the workbench. “I’m sure the process is a touch similar.”

“How?”

Rapping his fist against his chest, Gherman grinned. “From here. Yharnam blood, crystallized within the veins. It can be found in the heart, if one is willing to reach for it. Oh, but you’re a hunter, I’ve heard that’s now a common trick among you types.”

“You mean… I have to-”

“Yes, most easily found when their heart still beats within their chest. You must reach in and grasp it.” His voice raised in pitch, whispering on high like wind across reeds. “But not too tight! Do not crush it, lest you instead wish to work with the powdered dregs that remain. Bloodstone is a delicate substance, and terribly valuable. There’s many beasts that roam Yharnam that may offer you quite a bit of trouble if you find your blade catching on their flesh.”

“What on earth could possibly walk away from getting cut by _that?”_ she asked, gesturing to the blade with a horrified expression. “There can’t be anymore of that… _thing_ that I saw on the bridge.”

Gehrman simply tapped the side of his nose, before offering the spear to her. “Strange, horrible, wonderful creatures. You’ll know soon enough, although, you act as if you’ve seen one already.”

“His- he used to be- _it’s_ blood fell in my mouth when I was fighting it. I… saw things, what it used to be. A Cleric, but he had been transformed into something even more awful than the werewolves in the city.”

“A former Cleric you say? Why, that’s a special kind of blood. Quite fitting that the man would have been turned into something even more wretched than the common-folk.”

"Special blood? Even compared to this?" she asked, tapping at one of the vials fastened to her waist.

"Very much so. Blood Saints, Vicars, Hunters.. each one a touch different, but some greater than others. Not all blood is one and the same, why, look to Cainhurst. Vilebloods, they called them, and they embraced it."

"Cainhurst? I remember the Doll mentioning it."

"That she would. It was a kingdom, off west, far beyond the naked sea and nestled within the mountains." Gehrman glanced through the window toward the unearthly pillars ringing the workshop, hoary peaks matted by fog. "The only ones to ever truly threaten the Church. Of course, they killed them for it. Every last one."

“So they committed genocide.”

“Yes. Slaughtered every last one of them. It’s told that only Logarius’ executioners still roam the Castle Cainhurst, cursed in the final moments of that broken civilization.”

“Good.” Catherine’s lip curled at the revelation, her distaste for the Church rapidly shifting to outright hatred. “They deserve to be cursed.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t say such a thing if you had happened across one of their knights, or the hedonistic terrors they called nobility. The chosen few of Cainhurst made a habit of taking slaves and bloodstock for their own amusement.” Gehrmans face twisted into a scowl. “Vampires, every last one," he spat, rapping his cane against the floor for good measure.

“But to commit _genocide_. Kill the nobles, yes, bring out the guillotines. The people of my world have done that plenty enough, but I don’t think these executioners stopped at the nobles, did they?”

Gehrman waved his hand, scoffing. “The whole lot of them were rotten. Vilebloods through and through.” He locked eyes with Catherine, sharp gray seeming to bore into her very mind. “The knights and nobles from that damnable kingdom were far more terrifying monsters than anything you would encounter within Yharnam.”

"To kill them all is still reprehensible."

"Maybe in your world, girl, but here? You're one of us now, a Yharnamite - outsider you may be - that blood still runs through your veins. Perhaps where you come from one can hold to such paltry notions of sympathy, but you shall find no one here waiting to coddle you and your incessant nattering."

"You know, for a moment there, I thought we were actually getting along," she sniped.

"Ha!" Gehrman clapped his hands, a sharp laugh leaping from his throat. "If you wish for friends, find a whore willing to offer you their time and ear."

Jaw clenched, Catherine stood up and walked past the madman, ignoring the Doll as she set her hand upon the headstone and allowed its magic to carry her away.

-::-

Yharnam.

Blood and sweat and terrible things that lurked in the dark.

A bridge housing the rotting corpse of a beast too large to exist, something that could not carry its own weight without an ungodly strength and the nightmares that bred in this place fueling its every step.

Catherine returned to it all with fear in her heart, anger clawing at her spine.

Immortality, she felt, was a curse so horrible that she would not wish it upon her greatest enemy. Forced to drag herself through stinking alleys and scrape the blood off her pale form, meat clinging to her blade and the dying keens of a beast she felt too tired - too spiteful to end - clawing at the dirt behind her.

Not for the first time she played with the idea of death, a sweet embrace waiting just beyond the fold, yet something she knew now she could never lay hands on.

Oh, if only for a glimpse here, a torn chest there, or perhaps her foot - or what remained of it - pumping ragged jets of blood from the frayed stump where it used to be as her eyes slowly fluttered shut. No, Catherine could only look upon death with envy, gaze down at the bodies at her feet covered in mange and marred with sores, wishing she could enjoy such simple release.

When she was at Hogwarts, some part of her hoped that perhaps it was all a terrible dream. That she would finally find herself asleep and wake to find that no, there were not two hideous, unearthly blades locked away in her trunk. That there wasn’t blood, poured into a vial and sweet upon her tongue every time she left an office so thick with pink, she thought it a feverish hallucination from the mind of a broken childrens author.

When she was at Hogwarts, she didn’t dream of death as though it were the only cure to her horrid existence.

Searching for a new way to gain entry to the vaunted Cathedral Ward had continued to destroy her, inside and out.

Catherine had walked the sewers and their every dripping corner. She had climbed towers, screaming as she fell below to be impaled upon a spiked fence. She had tried to cut through the bars at the end of the bridge, falling into hysterics as her blade skipped off the metal and buried itself in her thigh.

Eileen was nowhere to be found, nor Gascoigne - the two hunters the only inkling of possible help that could come to mind.

So she wandered back to Iosefka’s Clinic, only to find that something horrible had happened.  
  
The windows were shuttered, the doors locked, and she could only vaguely see the outline of a knife held in the hands of whatever had come for the woman in the night. It was not Iosefka that hid behind those walls, not any longer.

For a moment, Catherine had thought of unlocking the door. It would have been simple, easy with her wand now in hand, but she felt too tired to do such a thing. Too exhausted to bother even raising her arm and blasting the door down, destroying whatever creature now spoke in her voice.

It, whatever it was, had been cheery to see her - its tone so unlike the fear that laced the Iosefka's words upon their first, and only real encounter.

_“Splendid,”_ she had said, the light sound of clapping behind the door echoing out from the thin seam below it. _“You’re soon off to hunt, yes? Then, if you find any survivors, tell them to come here and seek my clinic.”_

_“I thought you said they were too frail,”_ Catherine had replied thinly. _“You couldn’t let the plague inside these doors. You’ve even locked them up, shuttered all but the main door. Are you sure?”_

_“Yes, yes. Upon my oath, if they are yet human, I will look after them - perhaps even cure them. These beasts, the sickness, one must not fear it. And the night is so long, I may be trapped in here but I must do something to help, should I not? Why, I’ll even offer a reward for your cooperation!”_

She had left the clinic sick to her stomach, realizing that the one good person in this city, for a hunter could not be considered such, was now dead.

At least, she prayed she was, not tied up somewhere within the building.

The thought of killing the imposter, whoever she was, brought bile to her throat. Mad, undoubtedly so, but human all the same… she wasn’t sure she had it in her to take her blade to that woman’s throat.  
  
No, she would leave her be, and pray that they never crossed paths.

So instead, she found herself wandering the city, attempting to find a way to that damnable bridge, not the large one that stunk of rot and was now plagued by hungry beasts all come to feast on the only creature stronger than them. Instead the one below it, littered with men and women brandishing torches, spears, and makeshift swords all clenched in hands that were beginning to morph and twist into something more built for tearing than grasping.

It seemed that Gascoigne’s home, that tiny little apartment overlooking the sewers (and what a delightful view it was) and cloaked in incense was the only way there.

Hoping the man was in, Catherine walked up to the window and stuck her arm through the bars that extended past it, rapping her hand against the glass.

“Hello?” she called. “Is Gascoigne home, or is he out?”

A frightened gasp was what met her, the blinds being pulled back to reveal a young girl, perhaps nine or ten, her face streaked in tears. “Are- are you a hunter?”

Flinching, Catherine nodded. “Yes, I… I’ve hunted with your dad once, and I was wondering if he could help me find my way to Cathedral Ward. Are you okay?”

The girl shook her head, swallowing heavily. “No. My mum went looking for my daddy, and- he hadn’t come back, and she hasn’t either. I’m all alone… and… I- can you please look for her? Please? You’re a hunter! You can find her and my daddy!”

Catherine bit her lip, heart thundering at the idea of this woman looking for her husband with the city like this.   
  
For just a moment, her thoughts were taken away from herself. It made her feel human again.

  
“Yes. I- I can go look for her and your dad. Have they been gone for long?”

“Only an hour, I think. The bells have only chimed once since.”

“Good. Do you know where I could find them? Somewhere your dad tends to go?”

“Really! Oh, oh thank you! They sometimes go to the chapel, across the little bridge… there’s a tomb. I don’t really know what for, a god I think, but mum and dad like the gardens there. Um- my mum wears a brooch, with a red jewel in it, it’s big and beautiful and- you won’t miss it!” The girl stammered, fiddling with a latch before yanking the window open. She disappeared, the sound of cupboards sliding open echoing out of the house, before sticking her head back out the window with a little box in hand. “Give her this. It plays one of daddy’s favourite songs, and when he forgets us we play it for him so he remembers.”

Taking the box, Catherine patted the girl’s hand. “I’ll find your parents, okay? I’ll bring them right back,” she said, the words like poison on her tongue.

There was something wrong with Gascoigne when she had first seen him, and his jovial nature when spattered in blood unnerved her to no end. Perhaps his demeanour was true of all hunters. Perhaps he was blood-drunk, or close to it.

Whatever the case, Catherine was worried for him, and luckily enough, he was exactly where she needed to go. At least, she hoped. To find him and his wife in this city in the midst of all these beasts was… unthinkable to her. Impossible.

Even with her new senses, nose sharpened to a hound-like point, Catherine could scarcely discern the filth from the blood that ran so pungent in Yharnam’s streets.

“Really?”

“Really. And I’ll be back as soon as I can. Is… is there anyone else there with you? To take care of you?”

“My sister, but she went out to meet a friend during the day. I don’t know if she’ll be back until morning.”

“Then… lock the windows, don’t open them for anyone but me, okay? Keep that incense burning, and just… be as safe as you can. I’ll be back before you know it,” Catherine stated, offering a short wave before running off toward the bridge.

She ducked past snarling dogs, sprinted away from roaring townsfolk as she pushed her way to the bridge.

It was down below, she knew, but getting there was the hard part.

For a city with so many ladders, she found it more than difficult to happen across one that actually took her somewhere she needed to go.

Until Catherine remembered the lift, across from a home near the main bridge.

Jaw set, she continued in her wild chase - determined to find Gascoigne and his wife and bring them back safely to their daughters. It had only been an hour, two at most. There was still a chance they were out there.

Because they were Yharnamites, weren’t they? Far better accustomed to horror such as this than a witch from Britain.

They must be. The woman's husband was a hunter, after all. She had to have picked up a trick or two.

Steps quiet, Catherine slunk past two wolves, bickering over a bloodied torso. She crept across the bridge and into the home, palms clammy as they wrapped around her wand and blade, blinking against the darkness.

With a shout, she ducked out of the way as a man came screaming out of the shadows, practically impaling himself on her spear as he rushed toward her.

Grimacing, she kicked him off the blade, whirling around to dodge the swing of another beast who had been hiding behind the door, his face contorted in agony as her wand let off a massive _bang,_ blowing a hole in his chest and throwing him across the room.

There was the hammering of feet across steps, and Catherine swung her spear just as a woman came sprinting up them, cleanly slicing through her throat.

She stepped over her, leaving the woman to gasp wetly at the blood pouring from her throat.

Breath hardly laboured, she crept down the stairs, glancing around the corner to see a man in a wheelchair with a pistol pointed at her head.

Gasping, she ducked as the shot went off, cursing loudly as the bullet clipped her ear.

With a growl on her lips, Catherine stomped over to the man as he frantically attempted to reload his pistol, aged fingers slipping across the polished steel. He let out a cry as she buried the spear in his chest, batting away the pistol as he tried to point it at her with twitching arms.

She turned away from the dead man, stepping out of the home to see two giants grappling in a short courtyard, the bridge easily visible from her point on the stairs.

_Good._

Slowly, ever so slowly, she crept up behind them, halting only briefly when one roared, only for it to throw its companion over the ledge, sending it screaming to its death.

Quietly thankful for saving her the trouble, Catherine crept closer and closer until-

_Now._

Hand reared back, she thrust her blade through the creatures back and out its front, the sudden stink pouring from its belly screaming of the viscera it must have feasted on earlier.

Remembering Gehrman’s words, Catherine formed her hand into a point as the giant dropped to its knees, staring down at the blade in shock.

Roaring, Catherine plunged her hand through its shoulder, ripping through muscle and cracking bone as she grasped at its heart from the inside. Sick tickling at her throat, she pushed down a retch as she pulled her hand back out, arteries snapping as she tore the things heart from its back.

It fell forward, letting out a weak groan, but all Catherine was focused on was the still beating heart that she held in her hand.

Nauseous cloying grasp ghosting at her belly, she ignored the feeling as she tucked her wand into her pocket and pried the organ apart, a shimmering chunk of bloodstone falling from it and clattering across the ground.

She gasped, tossing the heart away as she bent down to pick up the stone, sighing in relief to find it had hardly been chipped in its travels.

It was small, hardly as thick as a twig, but with the ease in which her blade had cut through beasts with but a few of these, she was more than happy to have it in hand.

Placing it in one of the many pockets lining her coat, Catherine wrenched her spear out of the giant's body before taking her wand from her pocket, marching to the lift with horrifying confidence.

“Really?” she asked aloud, finding it barred by a collapsing grate that would not budge no matter how hard she pulled at it. Frustrated, she raised her arm, the flames that poured from her wand a torrid red as they worked their way across the metal, slowly but surely melting it down.

With that, she pulled the lever to her side and waited for the lift, confused for a moment when she stepped into it to find no buttons nor machinery of any sort, except for what looked to be a large button in the middle of the platform.

Pressing on it with her foot, she flinched as the lift rattled, carrying her swiftly down to the bottom level.

“What kind of insane engineers live in this city?” she wondered, staring at the contraption with some level of worry, fearing that it may up and explode beneath her, judging by how maddening the very concept of it was.

At least it worked without an attendant.

Stepping off the lift as quickly as she could, Catherine was more than happy to not add another ‘falling to my death’ notch to her mental list.

But now it seemed more likely that she would once more be chopped to bits trying to cross this bridge.

It looked as if every townsperson from the courtyard execution of - what she now realized was another cleric - had suddenly come back to life and gathered here along the only path she knew to get to Gascoigne.

_You have dealt with far worse than these beasts._

_Yeah?_ she snarked back. _Not this many. Not without being out of my mind._

The creature that spoke to her seemed to sigh, though there was no sound to accompany it, but a lengthy pause instead. _Then drink of my peoples blood and slay these creatures as you did their brethren._

Hand twitching, Catherine for once agreed with its notions. Snatching a vial off her belt, she tore off the cap and raised it to her lips, downing it in one swift movement.

As long as it stopped her from looking into their eyes, as long as it stopped her from feeling too much, it was worth it. She shook her head as the blood hummed from inside her, knees flexing as she prepared herself for the coming slaughter.

Just as she thought that, one of them noticed her, howling as he raised his torch and pointing in her direction.

Holding her breath, she held her spear tight, fingers shifting over her wand as she stared down the horde.

“You can do this,” she told herself, neck flexing of its own accord as the blood worked its way through her. “You’ve got this.”

With a roar, they began charging towards her, a hollering mass of deformed anger bolting down the bridge. Their blades scraped against the stone, shrieking horribly and casting sparks against the dark of night, the light dancing across their bloodied forms.

Catherine fired off an explosive hex as she rushed to meet them, the head of a woman at the front bursting open, the force knocking over a few near her now slumped corpse while the rest behind it slipped on the blood, losing their hold on their weapons.

Her spear clicked as she flicked it to the side, extended fully as she brought it up into a swipe, carving through one of the beasts thighs and severing it from his body.

Rolling, Catherine let off another explosion, blowing off the feet of the few nearest townsfolk as she jumped to her feet, stabbing another through the heart before whirling to catch another in the gut, her spear leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

She pushed clumsily through the crowd, hissing at every scrape and gash that tore through her armour, heart thumping with each body she added to the growing pile.

Her vision burst white as what felt like a hammer crashed against her jaw, staggering backwards and falling over a body. Catherine laughed through her broken jaw, teeth rolling beneath her tongue at the sight of pulped flesh atop a stump neck, realizing she’d sabotaged herself.

And with that, she died her first death, jaw torn from her body and a pitchfork ripping through her throat.

She laughed even louder when she returned to see them trying to dump their dead off the bridge, some crying and murmuring unintelligibly over the cooling bodies.

That time, they feared her, truly feared her, some stumbling backwards at the sight of her ghost and screaming in broken voices for mercy.

They found none at her hand, and Catherine saw only minor relief upon their faces as a boulder set ablaze came roaring down the path, crushing her beneath its weight and leaving her body smeared across the cobblestone.

The next time she returned, they seemed almost resigned to their deaths, many having fled while only the beastial remained, bodies distended and bones pushing their skin into horrid shapes as they tread further and further into their corruption.

Catherine slew them without effort, body fresh but mind haggard, wretched sobs ebbing from her throat as she stumbled toward the two that remained, hiding atop the stairs - another giant next to a frail little thing, holding a bit of plyboard against his chest and whimpering as she got closer.

“Was that your boulder?” she asked, glancing up at the torch. “Very clever. Must have taken a lot to get it set up.”

The man began to sob, hardly affected by the scourge. His face was clean, but his hands were matted with fur. “Please, I don’t- just, begone beast! Begone!” The giant next to him simply growled, hands held out and body hunched as it prepared to leap at her, apparently waiting for a signal from the softly sobbing man beside it.

“Beast?” Catherine asked, glancing left and right. “You mean them?” She jabbed her thumb over her back. “You mean _you?_ That _thing_ next to you?”

She eyed the giant, reaching down to snatch a vial off one of the many corpses and putting it to her lips. Drinking it slowly, she let out a sigh as the last drop fell across her tongue, tossing it aside and finding some horrid amusement as the man winced, eyes trailing the path of the vial as it shattered against the ground.

“You can walk away from this. You seem sane enough to realize that.” Catherine stepped to the side, pointing past the pile of corpses toward the city. “Go.”

Nodding hurriedly, the man dropped his shield, barely glancing at her as he sprinted away. She stood and watched as he stumbled over the bodies, hands scraping at the pavement and legs shaking as he carried himself to safety.

Turning back to the giant, she smiled, stepping back and taking another vial, sipping at it before putting the cap back on and fastening it to her waist. “I don’t think you’re all that sane, are you?”

The creature huffed, spit flying from its mouth.

Catherine sprinted up the steps, pulling beneath the beasts swinging arms as she clipped its tendons, blade raking across its ankles and sending it screaming to the ground, fists bashing against the stone.

With a single swing she beheaded it, stepping on top of its body and once more reaching into the silent corpse, pulling the warm heart from its chest.

Her throat bobbed and she turned to vomit, spitting once as she pried the heart apart to reveal the treasure inside - or, lack of.

She chuckled quietly, a broken sound that was hardly discernible over the distant sounds of wailing and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the crying of a baby.

Looking out across the chaos she had wrought, Catherine walked back down the steps and began to work on harvesting the bloodstone from each and every body she had left to rot.

To do otherwise, she thought, would be more than disrespectful.


	11. Chapter Eleven | What Beasts We Are

It seemed to be a garden, almost. One that grew stone rather than flowers, marked by a pillar rising crookedly within the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by crumbling headstones and the everpresent stench of blood.

That same red fell from her fingers to patter silently against the ground below, a steady _drip, drip, drip_ that was unnoticeable above the heavy handed crunch of Gascoigne's axe, echoing wetly as it crashed into the pile of meat below him that once was a person.

His clothes were smeared with crimson and chunks of flesh that quivered with every swing of his arm, spraying yet more viscera across the so-called _Tomb of Oedon,_ as the signage along the wall so proudly stated.

And a tomb it was, filled with graves and corpses alike, each one steadily more unrecognizable either due to beasthood or the maddened butchering of what Catherine now knew to be a Hunter, well and truly blood-drunk.

The stones in her pockets jingled as she adjusted the grip on her blade, hands slippery as they grasped for purchase at the cloth that wrapped round the spears handle, cloth as soaked in blood as the man standing before her. Her fingers trembled at the sight of him, knuckles worn and feeling as though she couldn't clench them tight enough to bear the massacre she had stumbled upon.

Not quite stumbled upon, she thought, seeing as she had sought the man out. Come to save him, she hoped, though now she realized that she was much too late. Many years too late.

How long had Gascoigne hunted? How long had he wandered these streets with that axe in hand and proudly slew the monsters that lurked in the dark? How long had he been on the brink, until this one final moment in which his mind came crumbling down, only a ghost of his once - perhaps kind - self to be found?

Catherine didn't rightly know. What she did know, was she feared him.

She feared him more than the Cleric atop the bridge, a beast in all but origin and too simple, too _off_ to be considered as monstrous as what this man had become.

Because there was still something left, something quiet and fearful that lurked in the recesses of his mind. How she could see teartracks laying pale ravines through the filth that marred his features, creeping out from under the sodden bandages that lay snug across his eyes.

A part of Gascoigne, who he once was, lay dormant. And by the gods of her home and Yharnam, she feared it.

And then he sniffed at the air, nose crinkling as a low growl slipped from his lips, chin raised ever so slightly from the ghastly display before him.

"Ah… smells so sweet, doesn't it?" he growled, a low grating murmur that slunk across the graves to just barely whisper at her ears, cloying and broken. "There's beasts you see, all over the shop." Gascoigne pointed at her with his axe, steel glinting in the moonlight. "You'll be one of them, soon enough."

"Gascoigne, I…"

Could she even try reasoning with him? To try and pull him from the brink? Catherine's gaze tracked across the graveyard, lingering on the pale shine of jewelry, gleaming proudly across the neck of a butchered woman atop the nearby stairs.

A brooch, red and lovely, stained ever moreso by the blood that had poured from her throat.

"Oh," she uttered.

Catherine's grip tightened over the haft of her spear, unable to drag her eyes away from the horror and pain that had seared itself upon the woman's face - jaw hanging loose, hair torn from her scalp and a ragged cut splitting her chest in twain.

Those poor girls.

She barely had a moment to shout before Gascoigne had leapt, crashing into the ground before her and tearing up stone with a low sweep of his axe.

Spitting at the debris, Catherine fired off a reflexive stunner, the bright red (too bright, blood and cut gems - _ragged flesh)_ of it splashing over his chest like fireworks, sparks scattering across the earth.

The spell cast its glow across the tomb, stark light shining horribly off his mangy flesh, unshaven face marred with blood and contorted into a hideous scowl. She nearly flinched at the sight, blood running cold and hand faltering as Gascoigne hardly stumbled through the charm, axe continuing to rake up stone like some sort of macabre plow.

Gascoigne grinned at her as he pulled his other arm into a lock, blunderbuss cracking loudly and sending Catherine backwards, body peppered with wounds from the makeshift buckshot.

Quicksilver, she had learned it to be. Mercury, blood, and steel blended into a bullet that can tear through near anything. So, it tore through her, spraying the ground beneath her back in bright red, her pained shout echoing across the tomb.

Her shout was interrupted as Gascoigne's axe planted itself between her jaw and skull, cleaving her head nearly in two from one joint down to the next, opening her face into a gaping, bloodsoaked grin.

She choked on the pouring blood, shards of her teeth falling to the ground with a clatter as he pulled the axe out of her face, a dull squelch and the steady patter of blood marking its release.

Catherine gurgled in amusement at the way her gaze tilted, vision blurry as he took the rest of her head off, blood pouring from her now open jaw like wine from a toppled cup.

Her time moving from the Dream to the Tomb was hurried, a vial already at her nape as she stepped from the lantern. The bloodlust it brought was tantalizing, the rush sending sparks down her back and setting the hairs littered across her neck on-end.

Gascoigne had to die.

His wife lay dead, marred and bloodied and cheeks still carved with tears of betrayal _(or was it resignation?)_. His children would likely be next, one missing and in Catherine's mind, dead as well. The other, the little girl, so relieved to have anyone - even a stranger - help her, that she broke into near hysterics, extending her trust wholeheartedly.

Catherine knew that kind of trust, that kind of fear. She'd have seen it in her own eyes when being told to sit down next to Janice and listen to her stories. She'd have seen it in her own eyes that thunder-stricken night on a barren rock, when Hagrid had swept into her life and carried her away from the tiny little world she had always known, one of neglect and ideations that still plagued her to this day.

She would be damned if she failed that girl.

When Gascoigne set eyes upon her for the second time, he flinched, gaze cast to the ground and searching among the corpses at his feet for hers.

"A dreamer… eh?" he seemed to wonder, a grin spreading across his face that told of death, one she had already experienced at his weathered hand. "So it was the moon, then, that sweetness."

"You're blood-drunk Gascoigne. Please, we don't have to do this," she begged, though a part of Catherine knew it was useless.

He simply rapped his axe gently against his temple. "I need to save them, save them all, lest they turn into beasts. You see it, don't you? You're a hunter, you know what I speak of. I'm giving them what they want, what they _need."_

"Even your wife, your daughters?"

Gascoignes movements were jerky as he shuffled towards her, arms twitching and his head rolling about as though it were strung to a wire. "Better this than have them tear each other's throats out in the coming weeks."

Catherine shot him in the head.

His neck snapped backwards as blood sprayed out behind him in a misty arc, a low moan of pain slipping from the man's lips as he stumbled, grasping at the tombs nearby for purchase. With a sickening crack, he pulled his head back into place, a gaping hole in his cheek leaking blood like a faucet, and his jaw hanging loose under the shattered bone.

" _Look, a beast,"_ he growled, almost imperceptible through crumbling teeth and a swollen tongue.

With a crack, he exploded. Clothes torn by shifting muscle, face bursting as the blood finally took over, fur exploding across his neck as the flesh beneath turned to leather. He seemed stuck, caught halfway between true beasthood and some broken remembrance of a man.

She'd never seen one of them turn before. She'd thought it a gradual process, something that slowly chipped away at their sanity until naught was left but a hungering for flesh.

It seemed it could happen in an instant.

The sight of him stung her eyes, much too terrible a creature to behold. Not for any lack of understanding, but for what she knew (or imagined) him to once be.

Hunched back, clawed hands, and a mouth that clove his head in two, distended jaws filled with a splayed array of teeth that poked out from among their brethren as though the crooked headstones that littered the tomb.

The scream that left his throat was pained, just human enough to make Catherine falter as he buried his arm in her chest.

So she found her way back, again and again, whittling away at his sordid flesh and carving through the misery that now cloaked him. Each trip seemed to wear on her, how she could feel new scars etched across her skin, tugging at her mind.

A thought struck Catherine as she ducked beneath another swing of his arms, one that had often whispered at the back of her mind but instead turned its words and attention toward the beast she now fought.

Just as the thought came to her, her arm was raised, a noxious green collecting silently upon the tip of her wand.

" _Avada Kedavra,"_ Catherine uttered, the word sparking something deep and hateful within her, the magic itself carrying a vibrant, glorious cold as it passed through her arm. The green seemed to burn even brighter, and she could feel a piece of herself escape as the spell crashed against Gascoigne, barely staggering the man as he continued charging forward.

So, that wouldn't work.

 _The blood fuels him, just as it does you,_ the voice inside her stated, the sound of its (her?) speech almost amused. _My people and I are not so easily swayed, extending to those held in rapture by our blessing. Do you not dash about as though a rabbit, now? Swing as though some muscled brute to be displayed in a house of fancy? Souls are not torn when bound to the blood, not unless one wills it to be._

"Shit." She ducked beneath a swing, dragging her blade along Gascoignes thigh and almost whimpering as the blade caught on tough flesh, a sharp tug pulling the teeth through.

_He's stronger._

Much stronger, she found, as his open palm crashed into her shoulder, shattering the bone and sending her flying across the tomb.

Catherine crashed into a tombstone, a pained shout escaping her as she slumped to the ground, body aching and her left arm close to useless. She scrabbled at her waist for a vial, downing it in two quick gulps as Gascoigne turned to charge at her.

Still staggered by the blow, she barely flinched out of the way as he careened past her, smashing into the monolith at the centre of the tomb. It tilted even further at the impact, the soil beneath churning as the roots that anchored the tomb in place shifted. Gascoigne roared, beating his fists against the ground, before plucking a nearby headstone from the earth. His shoulders strained against his coat, seams tearing as he hefted it up to waist height, before hurling the block in Catherine's direction.

She barely had a chance to blink before her brains were splattered across the earth, skull crushed and thick ropes of sinew pulled from her neck, stretched out beneath the bloodied stone.

Catherine shook her head upon returning to the dream, blinking the sight of one tonne of stone careening towards her away. "Fuck."

And again, she returned, a head on her shoulders and mind addled with bloodlust - a vengeance borne from the broken whisperings of the gods blood that now tainted her soul and a determined echo of her old self, screaming aloud to save that poor girl.

Not so old, she remembered. Perhaps a few weeks at most, but enough all the same.

A lot can change in that time.

"Gascoigne!" she roared, stepping into the Tomb once more, the sound that leapt from her throat animal and wild.

With deft hands she flipped open the music box, praying that it just may do something, rather than have her broken once again in some unimaginable way.

Her fingers caught at the handle, gears spinning and tines clacking melodiously as she turned it over and over, a quiet tune spilling forth over the din of staring corpses and grinding teeth.

Gascoigne screamed, some primal part of him - some small sliver of humanity hidden away - bashing its fists against the gates that held it. It was awful, frightful, so packed with misery that even the stones would weep could they hear it.

His knees seemed to lock, once so surefooted and now careening about the Tomb as though a drunkard, heavy steps bearing the weight of the memories that now plagued his shattered mind.

Catherine leapt, the little box tucked against her breast as she pressed her spear into his belly, the blade greedily ripping through his entrails and bursting out the other side.

Her spear was not dull when she had cut his thigh. She'd just been hesitant.

Stuffing her wand into the open wound, Catherine worked her wrist and whispered, _"Confringo."_

A blasting curse wasn't something that could be so easily ignored, even by the most magically resistant of creatures. An explosion was an explosion after all.

Gascoigne was no different, his chest inflating comically before Catherine found herself awash with a mess of steaming viscera, chunks of bone stuck to her cheeks and her ears ringing so loudly that she thought she might go deaf.

Stumbling backwards, she collapsed against the nearest grave, elbow propped against the stone as she stared at the waist and legs that once was Gascoigne - blood pouring from the gaping, spiderwebbed mass of flesh, an indiscernible pile of gore and pulped muscle spread out across the courtyard.

A wretched sob crept from her throat, thick with nausea and a creeping sense of finality.

The Tomb stunk of rot, the fetid stench of shit and piss strewn about the makeshift arena and coating the rotting corpses that lay resting outside their tiny, ornamental homes - dug from the earth by the hooked claws of the creatures she had long sown upon the bridge.

The sight was Yharnam, true and proud. A concentrated swathe of destruction and all things unholy to be found in this ailing city.

Her heart hammered in her chest as Catherine drew herself up, clumsily stepping through the pool of gore and forcing her aching knees to drag her up the stairs toward the waiting gate and the corpse that was prostrated on the roof before it - a brooch wrapped round its broken throat.

Catherine groaned in pain as she hopped down to the top of the building, stooping down on one knee to remove the brooch.

The chains were sticky with blood, cracked and flaking in places - miniature petals of rusty ochre fluttering away as she flipped the clasp, delicately lifting it from cold flesh to place it in her pocket next to the music box - just as quiet, just as still as the nest of bone and flesh that housed the womans naked heart.

With her entire being, Catherine cursed Yharnam, cursed the Church for bringing a curse this vile upon its own people. The Cathedral Ward was upon her, and she would find the Church, find them and tear the answers from their bloodied hands.

She would make them choke on the misery they had wrought.


	12. Chapter Twelve | Down, Down We Go

Through sewers and broken homes Catherine shuffled, limbs aching and the sweetness of Gascoigne's blood upon her tongue.

She could taste his memories within those plague-stricken drops, and it took everything in her to focus on blocking them out. Occlumency, it seemed, had uses beyond keeping the living out of your mind. Snippets still slipped through, brief flashes of a better time and a life she never lived, catching glances in her mind's eye of towers that did not stand crooked, instead tall and proud - as if a modern babel built to affront the gods themselves.

If anything could convince her of the Yharnamites' success, it was the scourge they had brought upon themselves.

Only a furious god could bring down such cataclysmic horror. Only something beyond the mind of man could craft and temper nightmares that could eviscerate humans in droves, to destroy them for such hubris.

The house she crept through was quiet, so quiet she could hear the blood thundering in her ears, could practically feel the air shift with every broken step. Even the floorboards didn't do so much as creak, the building largely untouched by the horrors beyond its walls.

It was a haven, of sorts. A brief respite from the cold beyond, from the torches and wailing that plagued the outside world. Catherine's fingers trailed lightly over tables and chairs as she trudged ever upward, wrapped round ladder rungs and rough steel.

Her mind ached with each step, her very soul whimpering at the singed memories that lapped at its shores.

Gascoigne was a pained man, she felt. In the dull ache that clung to her ankles, or the ringing that was just barely out of reach - but a whisper on the wind, yet, loud as any bellow or roar to be heard on those muddied streets.

His claws, dead and still, yet clung to her.

So she instead closed her eyes as she wandered off to the Cathedral Ward, bloodied footsteps in her wake and the stench of rot clinging to all that she passed.

Catherine was not idle, though. Picking through trunks and cupboards in her steady climb, she happened across a tool that screamed of Gehrman's handiwork. It looked somewhat like a torture device, the nightmarish offspring of a set of pliers and a trepanation screw.

Something about it told her it was useful all the same. Or, perhaps it was the ghostly ramblings of the man she had just painted a tomb with, adorning its methodical stonework with ropes of gore, most likely still steaming in the cold night's air. Either way, she took it into her arms, weapons strapped to her back and the contraption hanging loosely from tired fingers.

Practically heaving herself up yet another ornate set of stairs - for some odd reason these ones fashioned of stone, rather than fine hardwood flanked by carved handrails - Catherine pressed her shoulder to a wide door, sighing in relief as it swung open.

She staggered as she found herself in a church, having expected to walk out to another bloc of town homes, or even the bloodied streets she'd grown so familiar with. Instead, the walls reached ever upward, false arcades crafted with painstaking detail and the expanse of the chapel dotted by urns filled to the brim with smoldering incense - the sharp, fragrant tinge of which stung her nostrils and wafted across the floor in curling waves.

Her heart soared at the very sight of the place, realizing this was somewhere that could be considered the closest thing to safe, at least, that she'd seen so far in this damnable city.

"Oh my! Hello? Is that a visitor?" A voice called to her right, causing her to jump and turn to what she'd passed off as a lump of dirtied rags.

Long, crooked arms pushed the figure to a cross legged sit, the rusty cloth that was draped across it forming a pool around its twisted body.

It was a man, she thought, eyes clouded like rancid milk and the skin upon his face clinging tight, forming deep hollows and turning his already frightening mask into one that more resembled an image of death than anything human.

He looked almost regretful, head tilting as Catherine's boots skidded against the floor. "My, did I startle you? Terribly sorry, the incense must have masked your scent." The man sniffed at the air, eyes unseeing as he tasted at it as though a snake. "A hunter? I've been waiting for one of your ilk."

"Waiting?" Catherine managed, tongue heavy in her mouth.

"It's been an awful long night," he said, tapping his ear. "Can hear 'em all out there screaming. Even some of the people locked up are going bad."

"That's… not normal?"

"No! Gods, no. Never heard a hunt like this, it's something frightening I'd say."

"Frightening…" she scoffed, a light huff escaping her as she readjusted her grip on the odd tool she'd found, fingers slick against the cold metal. "That could describe this whole city."

The man laughed, head bobbing to and fro. "Could be, could be. Y'know, you're welcome to stay here… if you'd like? Or anyone, really. I've... I've got enough incense to last the night and many more, just- it seems awful out there, and I know you're a hunter 'n all… I don't want to see anyone in danger."

"I…"

She studied him, his pinched expression and frail arms, bundled up in ragged cloth and left to rot upon the floor as if some long-forgotten rug.

"I'll think about it."

"Right. Yes, right." He nodded a few times, sightless gaze cast across the floor. "I understand."

Catherine glanced away from him, spying a familiar lantern that jutted from the floor of the church.

A way away from all this.

"I'll be back, I think." Pausing, she looked him over again. Although wretched and altogether distasteful to so much as glance at, she couldn't spy a lick of beasthood upon his pallid skin.

But, that wasn't enough to even begin trusting him. She'd seen Gascoigne turn in the blink of an eye, even though the only thing that was truly bestial about him had been his fangs.

Her tongue ran across her teeth, flinching at the slight jab of pain as she was reminded of her own.

Damn this city.

"Do you know anything about the Church? I've come looking for them."

Humming quietly, his fingers flexed in odd motions as if pulled by strings. "They come to visit, sometimes. Bring incense, food, collection baskets…" he pursed his lips. "Ain't heard much from 'em during this night, what with how bad it is and all. You'd want to find Missus Amelia, the Vicar." He raised his head, smiling at nothing. "A very nice lady, she is. Terribly kind. Hard to find one so nice in the Church, and she's the top of it all! Or… so the neighbours say."

Gritting her teeth, Catherine nodded to herself. "And you haven't heard from her?"

"No, not at all Miss Hunter. Not for a week or so. If you do find her, would you be able to tell me if she's alright? She brings the nicest wine sometimes, and- I couldn't bear it if something had happened to her."

"I'll do just that," she lied, palms already itching at the thought of running that woman through with her blade.

As long as she got the answers she needed from her first.

"It was nice meeting you, though, I never got your name."

"Oh!" He chuckled shyly, turning away. "They call me Elijah, miss."

"Catherine."

"Miss Catherine, then. You… don't get hurt out there, okay? And if you find anyone, tell 'em it's safe at Oedon Chapel. Got plenty o' food in the basement," he said, patting the ground next to him.

"I'll… keep that in mind."

She turned briskly, a quiet snap from her fingers trickling across the church and garnering a quiet tinkle from the lantern as it lit up, a soft blue shine cast out around it.

Aching, she kneeled before the lantern, letting it take her back to the workshop.

-::-

It turned out that the contraption was useful, according to Gehrman.

His own handiwork he had said, something meant to fit the crystalline blood (because apparently that was the only worthwhile tool in this horrid city) to a weapon.

Magic could be found in those things - gems, he had stated excitedly - more precious than gold and shining diamonds.

It seemed like enchanting to Catherine, or at least, as much as she knew about the process. To force magic into an object, hammering the metaphysical into something _more._ Like Godric's sword, drinking up the venom of the Basilisk and wielding that power as if it were its own.

All she cared was that it was useful, and would make her undeath significantly less awful if her weapons could more easily cut through her foes.

And undeath was what Catherine came to name her predicament. Caught somewhere between the two worlds and tossed about as some invisible gods plaything. How it _(she)_ whispered in her ear. Words of comfort, words of anger - always cheering, taunting - _leading,_ to the next blood soaked step.

She wondered if the Yharnamites worshipped the god that plagued her, peering up at the grotesque statues that littered the courtyard beyond the chapel, a small part of her looking for even a sliver of familiarity in the ghastly shapes.

It was not only gargoyles that flanked the sprawling, gothic lanes, but hideous caricatures of people, draped in cloth and prostrated - their arms held high in reverence to their deities above. Some were fashioned as lampposts, burdened by thick bars of steel and shattered glass, the stem planted into the pillar they rested on and kept aloft as though the weight of atlas himself.

But some statues were unrecognizable. Arms that split halfway like bone, ending in too many (or too little) fingers, and in the place of a head instead a lattice of thorns, a vague suggestion of eyes peeking out from between them.

Perhaps this was one of their gods, or how the people here saw them. Believed them to be. Something spiderlike and hideous.

But, the only thing to touch on her mind was anger. Anger at the city. Anger at the church. Anger at the waking nightmare she would be sent to after every inevitable death, one that she had learned could not bear any more guests.

So that left the question of the girl, and what to do with her.

Gascoigne's daughter was sure to starve if left alone, tired and frightened, too young to survive such a horrid place as Yharnam. But Catherine could not bring her to the Dream, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

While the Chapel seemed safe… she had no trust for anyone here. The only people she had met had been mad, murderous, or plague-ridden and soon to shift.

 _Not quite babysitting material,_ she thought, stifling a macabre chuckle.

Wherever, and whoever it was, though, Catherine would have to decide quickly, lest the girl - _and god, she didn't even know her name -_ be devoured by some unsightly beast.

Thus Catherine walked. Walked and carved a path through the city, fighting off pale men bearing purple lanterns and broken staves, shouting hoarsely as they lumbered murderously towards her.

They were dressed almost as parishioners, something vaguely familiar to her, with their flat caps and open hoods. Some even wielded crosses as weapons, thick slabs of wood stained in red and dotted with a patchwork of rusted nails, their pointed ends sticking from the crucifix this way and that.

She found that being bludgeoned with one was more awful than she could have imagined it to be, the scrape of steel dragging down her skull and raking up chunks of her brain with it.

And so again and again she returned to the Chapel to once more set out and find her way to the home of the Church, having no luck navigating the crowded and winding streets of Yharnam.

Elijah, the keeper, seemed to hardly notice her coming and going, only occasionally pausing to look up from his little perch and offer a small kindness, or some words of thanks for her 'work.'

Her only response to those paltry niceties were a curled lip and a nod, sometimes accompanied by a grunt of recognition, feeling beyond the need to treat anyone dwelling within the mire of Yharnam with even a speck of friendliness.

The only one deserving of that was the girl, one of only a handful in the city to be untouched by the stain that now shone so bright on Catherine's leathers.

Therefore she planned, deciding that she had about a day to figure out where to bring the girl. She couldn't leave her home alone for much longer, not without risking her running off on her own. Fear can do stupid things to a person, and that was something she knew intimately. Chasing after a damned Basilisk, taunting Voldemort, _Voldemort,_ in front of his own men…

Catherine was a bit of an idiot when it came to fear.

Her feet, unlike her mind, were not focused on the girl and her predicament, and though she continued to hack through man and beast, shearing them with steel and spellfire, her legs led her downwards.

Down past the stacks of houses all piled atop each other as if a children's building set. Down past wolves with poison dripping from their open mouths. Down past the roots of a city that had grown too large for itself.

She found herself walking on streets paved with dust and grime, an ichor clinging to the cracks between the stones and emanating a vile, rotten stench. It stung her nose like flames, acrid and sulfurous, seeming to permeate the abandoned homes that lined the street. Above that she could still detect that faint, everpresent tinge of beasthood floating through the air, as if one of the many creatures in this city was waiting behind each and every corner.

So she continued on, dodging gunshots and rusted blades as she dredged through the depths, until she came across an old, standing tomb.

Catherine slunk into it carefully, having just dispatched a man and two maggot-ridden dogs that answered to his beastial shouts. Her side stung, knitting back together after having sipped at the vial she had stolen from his still warm corpse.

The interior was cold, reminding her somewhat of the Chapel, with its painstakingly carved walls and ornate decorations which, though many were smashed beyond recognition, still reflected on their surface the maddened forms of Yharnam art. And, for some odd reason, there was a lever tucked into the corner of the room - hidden off to the side of a massive sarcophagus.

What was it with Yharnamites and levers?

Just as Catherine went to grasp it, she let out a hurried shout, some instinctual part of her pulling her body aside and out of the way of a hatchet, a man having come screaming out of the shadows. He tried to turn on his heel, bare feet slipping against the marble as he whirled about, but Catherine had already raised her arm and fired off a spell, his face splitting in two and spraying thick chunks of gore across the wall behind him.

 _And the lever,_ Catherine noted blandly, pushing aside his steaming corpse and gripping the steel with both hands. She yanked with her whole body, the steady crunch of machinery beneath her feet rumbling through the tomb. Stamping her feet and wiping the brains off her hands, her jaw dropped as she saw the sarcophagus grind open at the same moment a man peek his head into the tomb from above, goggling at her through a broken window.

"Ah! Hello there!" he called. "What's all this noise?"

She pointed awkwardly at the sarcophagus, but kept one hand on her spear. "I pulled the lever and… it looks like it's opened up a passage. Who are you?"

"I beg your pardon, but would it offend you if I came down to introduce myself? I was just resting beside the tomb here when you startled me something terrible."

"By all means."

The man's face lit up, though he could be considered more boyish than anything. Slight and soft, with blonde curls tumbling to his cheeks, cheeks of which were dusted in patchy mutton chops. He nodded quickly, his head disappearing for a moment before she saw his foot in its old place, kicking out the rest of the glass as he jumped down into the tomb itself.

"A pleasure to meet you! My name is Alfred!" he said, offering a strange bow and salute, his elbow pulled across his waist as he bent harshly, almost parallel with the ground. All she could really notice was the massive carriage wheel strapped to his back. "And you?"

"Catherine," she replied, giving him a short nod. "You were resting outside?"

"More… pondering the night, you could say. And quite a long one it is, is it not?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not from here."

His eyebrows knitted together, head tilting curiously. "An outsider _and_ a hunter, eh? Well, that's exciting indeed! How have you taken to Yharnam thus far?"

Catherine laughed. "Are you kidding me? It's a fucking nightmare here. I'm trying to get out."

"Through Old Yharnam?" he asked, the cheer still not leaving his voice.

"What?"

"There," he pointed at the steps the sarcophagus had revealed. "The path to Old Yharnam, burnt and blighted. It's not quite a way out, and more a way deeper in. The history of the city, you see."

"I'm _trying_ to get to the Cathedral Ward. I was at the entrance to it, but… it seemed my feet took me here."

"Curious and curiouser, I must say," Alfred mused, pushing himself up on top of the sarcophagus, his boots brushing the floor as he sat atop it. "What brought you to Yharnam?"

"Listen," she interrupted, raising her hand. "I'm not really the chatting type, and I'd just like to get to the Cathedral Ward. I need to learn more about the Church and- and what happened here, so unless you can help me with that I'll be on my way."

Frowning childishly, he crossed his arms, letting out a windy sigh. "So impolite, you outsiders are. All I wanted to do was offer a token of my friendship, or acquaintance, if you'd like it."

"Do you know anything, or no?" Catherine stared at him, eyes flitting over his oddly formal - even for Yharnam - clothing, solid gray from top to bottom and covered in tight lapels and shining buttons. It was adorned with the faint white stitch of a rune marking the chest of his coat and a cloak hanging from his shoulders that looked better suited to winter living than the occasional rain she had come to expect from her time here.

She flinched as she realized he could be a member of the Church.

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm a protege of the old Master Logarius, but all that means of me is that I am simply a different breed of hunter." His words brought her momentary respite from her thumping heart, though she didn't remove her hand from the hilt of her blade as Alfred tapped his fingers on his knees, leaning back against his wheel. "Are you looking for blood healing? Because if that's the case, then you very well should pay them a visit. If you're looking to wonder about the hunt, though, the Church is oft reclusive, especially as of late."

"That's what I've heard from everyone so far." Catherine let out a sigh herself, long and strained. "Thank you, regardless. If you happen to hear anything about them, bring the news to Elijah at Oedon Chapel. I plan to visit there in the future and any information helps."

"If I happen to be off that way, I will be sure to let the good man know. Although, I am still quite curious… would you tell me of your travels?"

"Why?"

Aghast, he pressed his hand to his chest. "Why? Why, I've told you all I know, yet you share no stories yourself? For all I know you could be a Vileblood, here to curse our blessed city."

"You mean from Cainhurst? They're all dead."

"You can never be too safe regarding Vilebloods. Why, it's even in their name!" Alfred slapped his knee, chuckling. "Well, if you've not got a story to tell, I'm afraid to say there will be no friendship to be found between you and I. Do not visit your Elijah looking for tales of mine." He hopped off the sarcophagus and bowed yet again. "I wish you the best of luck in your journey, Hunter, and may the good blood guide your way. I pray, if we happen across each other again, that you may yet find your manners."

Like a peacock, he strutted off into the city, his cheer so alien to Catherine that she found her eye twitching at the very sight. The beasts of this city she could detest without prejudice, but this man seemed to irk her in a way none had since Snape. They were nothing alike, yet his words stung her ears all the same. Somehow too kind, too fake, too _bright_ for a place so tainted.

Glancing at her feet, she studied the stairwell, a line of steps quickly disappearing into the darkness deep beneath the tomb.

To Old Yharnam it was, then. Locked away behind a stony coffin and begging for its secrets to be bared to the world.


	13. Chapter Thirteen | Into the Fire

There was a note she had found near Gilbert’s house, left atop a cabinet near that damnable, wheelchair ridden man who had attempted to fill her gut with buckshot. It had said Old Yharnam was burned upon a night long past, and here she now stood to lay witness to it.  
  


Burned it was, an aging relic tainted by its history. The gothic facades were cracked and crumbling, or outright reduced to a pile of soot soaked rubble, the flames that had passed through this place scarring every inch of its shadowy walls. Something horrid had happened here, something beyond this city's imagination, and the miasma it had inflicted still clung to every charred stone.

She could taste the sorrow on the air, feel it in her steps as she slowly trotted down the stairs leading to the venitian bridges that lay out before her. These were the roots of Yharnam, its old lifeblood planted deep in the soil and laying a foundation for the hideous thing it had grown into. Yet, she could still hardly see the ground below, hundreds of feet above any semblance of soil, as though the city had grown from the mountains that surrounded it like a cancer.

It was almost silent down here, save for the occasional wails that echoed out from the city above or the muted crackle of fire that somehow still burned along the crumbling rooftops. If she listened hard enough, Catherine could pick up on the scratches and keening groans of the creatures that called this waking hell home, hidden in the rooms below and scavenging through rotten floorboards for their pound of flesh.

Stooping down, she pressed her ear against the rooftop, their scratches and skittering creeping up to meet her. They were the sounds of something much smaller than the beasts she had come across so far, not that of a wolf larger than the man it once was - but instead something horrid and crippled.

There were small workstations dotting her path, mostly reduced to cinders, but some still stood, crooked yet proud. She reached out and ghosted her palm over one of them, snatching a wrap of paper that held a few pills within its waxy grip.

“The scourge?” she wondered, stuffing them in one of her pockets.

Whatever they were, they were probably useful. She’d only have Gehrman to ask.

Her mind pulled back and thought on the note she had ripped in two to pass into this smouldering mausoleum.

_This town is long abandoned. Hunters not wanted here._

What could have possibly happened here for them to abandon the city in its entirety? From what she could guess, the beginning of the Yharnamites reign over this land? How bad had it gotten here, for them to condemn it wholly, to set fire loose upon the city and - to her mind - wipe it from the annals of time?

Though it still burned, it looked as if all had left in a hurry. Belongings scattered. Benches toppled. Something had happened, so quickly that a broken image of it yet remained, like a photo taken the moment after a disaster.

A tiny microcosm of time. A sliver of what once was.

Catherine pushed through the smoke, wand waving to and fro to clear the path before her, not keen on having something come lunging out from it and tear her limb from limb.

Staying alive for an hour was hard enough being able to see more than four feet in front of her, and giving the creatures of Yharnam a handicap, nor choking herself on the smog were sure to make her plan of staying alive any easier.

Just as that thought struck her, she happened across one of those beasts she had heard slinking about. It almost looked like a man, except for the fur that dotted every inch of its body, or the way it's mouth split open to reveal a much too wide maw of pointed teeth. It was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, and made to lunge before it noticed the burning pile between them.

The creature shirked around the flames, hissing furiously, yet unwillingly to dive straight through the fire to reach towards her. Eyeing it, Catherine smirked as she pointed her wand at the thing and doused it in flames, a hideous shriek tearing from the creature's throat and echoing shrilly into the distance.

Satisfied, she strode forward and plunged her spear through its chest, putting the beast out of its misery.

And from its dying cry, the screams of its kin erupted from the city below.

They echoed off the walls, high and furious, a singular chorus bursting from invisible beasts mouths and fierce enough to curdle the blood that ran through her veins. Catherine’s whole body tensed, terrible shivers running up her spine and the sharp pang of brittle noise hammering against her ears. Almost on reflex, she hunched into herself, back twisting as if to pull away from the cacophony and hide from such awful sounds.  
  
A voice rang out from beyond, carrying across the screeching and meeting her ears plainly.   
  
_“Hunter! Did you not see the warning? Turn back, at once, lest I force you back.”_

She looked up and down, scanning the many rooftops until her gaze alighted upon the single, tallest tower of the burned quarter, the silhouette of a man standing atop next to what looked to be a cannon, a cone lifted to his lips and sending his voice clear across the city.

Tentative, she pressed her wand against her throat, ears trained on the steady footsteps below. She had but a moment to speak with this man, this hunter, and pray that he didn’t attack her.

_“I’ve only come for answers!”_ Catherine roared, the sound of her voice almost earsplitting. _“I don’t want to fight you!”_

Even from this distance, she could see whoever it was hesitate, the brassy megaphone he held floating awkwardly before him. He took it up, shoulders squared. _“This is a home to beasts, and beasts alone. If you do not leave, you will face the hunt.”_

Damnit.

“Shit, shit, _shit.”_ Catherine cursed up and down, teeth set into a harsh grimace as the footfall of beasts grew more frantic. She had to move.

In a blistering rush, she tore ahead, hoping desperately to make it to this man and just explain herself. Make him see that she was no danger.

But he spoke of the beasts as though they were companions.

She didn’t know how long this man had been here. Whether he was witness to Old Yharnam’s consecration, partook in it, or just happened across it as she had. But, he called this place home and because of that, he was another person who could answer her questions.  
  


Catherine could only hope he wasn’t as mad as Alfred.

Her feet crashed against the stone, each thundering step sending shocks up her legs. The reverberations seemed to clash against the pounding of her heart, the two meeting in a frenzy and bursting across her body like waves.  
  
Ducking and leaping across the rooftops, she dashed into one of the buildings just as a staccato burst of gunfire tore holes through the stonework behind her.   
  
The man had a gun. A giant, automatic gun.   
  
At least it wasn’t a cannon, like she first suspected. Catherine wasn’t entirely keen on experiencing what it would be like to be reduced to a spongy paste.

It took only a few steps beyond the building for Catherine to taste the guns bite, a bullet ripping through her ankle and leaving half her boot and the foot within on the ground behind her. She toppled, stump dragging a bloodied line across the stone as her hands caught at the rising earth, narrowly avoiding knocking her jaw closed across the tip of her tongue.

_Shit._

She turned to grab at her fallen limb, snatching it up and dragging herself back into cover just before another rattling burst of gunfire chewed up the stone where she had just sat, one of the bullets taking out the toe of the boot and spraying a fine mist in its wake.

Clutching the ragged chunk of bone and flesh, Catherine awkwardly pressed it against the stump, cursing loudly at the uselessness of it.

Now furious, she hauled herself back into vision, shouting her anger at the man. He ignored the litany of curses thrown his way, his less-distant form pushing forward on the crank of the gun.

With another rattle and blistering crack, Catherine's torso was turned to mince beneath the spray of infused quicksilver, misted red painting the flagstones behind her.

Swearing loudly as she re-surfaced in the Dream, Catherine ignored the vaguely shocked look on the Doll as she pushed towards the headstone.

“Are you alright, Catherine?”  
  


“Fine,” she sniped, fingers rolling over her wand. “Just thinking.”

“About what, may I ask?”

Catherine paused for a moment, her fingers still and breaths heavy. “How to sneak past a man with a gatling gun, and get close enough to speak with him.” She sighed, massaging her forehead. “If I only knew how to apparate.”

“Apparate?” the Doll asked, sidling up next to her.

Neck aching as she peered up at the Doll, she bit her lip. “Teleport. Move instantly from one place to another. It’s something… my kind can do, but I haven’t learned how to. Not yet.”

A quaint smile seemed to pass over the Dolls face, childlike and full of awe. “How incredible! Your magic seems beyond imagination.”

“That’s one of the simplest things we do.” Catherine snorted at the thought. “A whole culture. An entire peoples spanning the world that teleports to get to and from work without even a second thought.”

“If you would be willing, I would enjoy hearing more of your world. I… know I have asked you this before, but it truly does seem fanciful.”

“Compared to this hellscape? Yeah, I guess so. Haven’t really seen it that way for a few years though.”

“Why?”

_Venting to some… inanimate object? Is this really my life?_ Catherine mused, leaning against the headstone. _I must be losing it._

“My life hasn’t been good. Orphaned by a madman, a madman who for some damned reason just won’t stay dead…” she kicked at the dirt, clumps clinging stubbornly to the toe of her boot. “A madman who, my entire life, has dedicated himself to trying to kill me. Not to mention the prejudice. What I’ve seen here is horrible, nightmarish, but it’s- it’s different, somehow, frightening in its own way. The beasts aren’t what frighten me, it’s that people caused this. _Humans._ That’s what horrifies me the most.”

The Doll simply nodded, silently listening.

“The man who’s after me, the people who follow him, the things they believe and are capable of doing… there was this dictator, fifty years ago, who almost brought the world - our entire planet - to its knees. He and his regime killed millions not just because they opposed him, but because he considered them less than human.”  
  
“Men, women, children, all because of what they worshipped, or who they were or loved. All of them were rounded up and systematically executed. They dumped them, naked and stripped of everything valuable, even their teeth, in mass graves. That, or they simply incinerated the bodies,” Catherine continued, her finger trailing atop the gravestone in a shaky line. “How many people lived in Yharnam at its height, do you think?”

“Near two hundred thousand, perhaps more.”

“Seventy five million people died in that war. Twelve million were executed in camps. _That_ is what my people are capable of. That is what my world can, has, and will do. They’re trying to do it now, Voldemort, in some sort of quest for…” she laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly, I don’t even know. I can’t get inside his head - any of their heads. I don’t _want_ to understand, yet some part of me needs to know how they can do and believe such things.”

“That is… horrifying.”

Humming her agreement, Catherine shrugged. “A different kind of horror. What I can see here, it’s… it’s what I imagine the soldiers saw storming Auschwitz. The extent to which we can destroy. So, yes, my world can seem fanciful, but we’re just as capable of inflicting the same kind of horror I see here.” She paused again. “Maybe even better at it.”

“I see.”

“Well, thank you for that… incredibly cheery conversation. I have a mad man with a gatling gun to speak to.”

The Doll nodded serenely. “Have you thought of how to get to him?”  
  
“Nothing like turning invisible. If he can’t see me, he can’t shoot me, right?”

If the Doll were capable of it, her eyebrows would have shot to the top of her head. Instead, her mouth dropped open, surprise stealing away her passive mask. “Astonishing.”

“Very.” Catherine’s hand dropped to the face of the headstone, picturing the ruins of Old Yharnam. “Off I go,” she said, disappearing in a pale blue mist.

_That war you speak of,_ the Voice spoke as she passed through the ether, back to the burned ruins. _Terrors such as that have not yet been unleashed upon this world. Perchance you may bring down your hammer upon Yharnam? Cleanse it of its filth._

The scowl that forced its way across her face was mighty, wand dancing from her scalp to her waist accompanied by the sensation of chilled water trickling down her body as it was hidden from view.

_Not on your life,_ Catherine retorted viciously.

_My life is already at an end, dear child, and I will not yet return for many a century. But, does your work not resemble that of the despots that you revile, so? These beasts were once men, though tainted by blood their minds would once dance alike your own. The invalid and desperate, journeying from faraway lands for a taste of sanctified blood._

She refused to amuse the god, spear quick as she danced her way through the ruins, ripping through beasts throats before they could detect her - apart from her scent - the stink of blood heavy upon her and sending the beasts sniping and growling as their nostrils flared.

_Stubbornness does not become you, child._

Her lip curled, a quiet huff creeping from her lips as Catherine transfigured a rock into a quicksilver spike, launching it with a flick of her wand at another creature, the spike burying itself in its skull and killing it with nothing but a dull crunch.

_Fuck you,_ Catherine snarled.

With deft hands and feet she pushed closer and closer to the tower, a slew of bodies in her wake. It was only once (or twice, she would admit) that Catherine found herself noticed, clawed across the face by some red eyed beast in rags, claws that she was quickly learning to be coated in some sort of poison.

Stumbling, Catherine spat at the ground, a faint spot of crimson staining the path before her. Internal bleeding, she guessed, judging by how it felt like thorns were wrapped round her guts.

Clutching at her bleeding nose and doing her best to ignore the stabbing pain in her abdomen, she stopped to catch her breath before a rickety, half-built wooden frame of a tower, housing piles of smoking ash and rotting corpses, teeming with maggots. Catherine was choking on her own throat, limbs heavy and eyes weak as she tried to hold back the coughs that threatened to wrack her body.

Fumbling at her waist for an invisible blood vial, she pulled away the stopper and brought it to her lips, choking down the ambrosia.

_Too much,_ she thought, a blistering cough working its way from her throat and sending phlegm and blood flying across the rooftop, the vial slipping from her hand and shattering at her feet.

Beasts ahead snarled at the noise, turning directly to her, faces raised and scenting at the air. A man cloaked in black hunters garb, the edges singed and fabric stained with smoke, lurched out of the shadows at their growls. His shoulders were stooped, gait awkward, erratic as he shuffled forward.

_Blood drunk,_ she realized, praying that he was not like Gascoigne.

_“Someone new? A Dreamer?”_ The man suddenly shouted from above, peering across the city blindly. _“Come, then, and I’ll send you back to that Doll.”_

Catherine’s need to speak with the man spiked tenfold, hearing him speak so clearly of the Dream. Blood pumping, she dashed out of sight, the disillusionment charm around her flickering as she leapt past the beasts and attempted to plunge her spear into the hunters chest.

He growled, features twisted and animalistic as he tried to twist away from the thrust, one arm raised in reflex. The blade carved through it, severing the limb at the elbow and spraying Catherine in blood.

Ducking beneath his swing, she pushed him away and whirled around to face the beasts, spear raised to catch them should they charge. Three of them, spitting furious as they crept forward, claws sharp and glinting in the moonlight.

A quick spray of flame caught one, the creature throwing itself off the tower in its frantic rush to escape the fire, the other dodging out of its path as it careened over the wall. Startled, the last ran right for her, impaling itself on her spear in its maddened rush.

Catherine cursed, stumbling against the weight as her arm was pushed backwards, attempting to kick the thing off her spear as it screeched, the barbs caught snug on its flesh as it struggled to press forward.

A scream left her lips, dropping the blade and ducking away as she felt steel cut through her shoulder, leaving the beast keening on the ground as she looked up to see the hunter with a cleaver in hand. _“Shit.”_ Catherine rolled backwards, wand flicking and sending a pile of rubble towards the man as if a mudslide, burying him beneath it.

She howled again as the remaining beast leapt onto her, claws tearing at her chest. Her wand fell as she grappled with it, her own screams echoing shrilly as she grabbed at the creatures throat with one hand, the other smashed against its face, thumb buried in its eye socket.

Roaring in pain, the beast scratched at her arms as its eye popped, warm viscera soaking her wrist. In a flash, her hand moved down to its throat to join the other. She tightened her grip, pressing with all her might and ignoring the grease and blood that stained her arms, the claws tearing furrows through them.

In chorus, her knuckles popped as the creature's throat gave a sickening crunch, coughing blood in her face and crumpling atop her. Growling, she pushed the corpse away, scrambling to her feet while scanning for her wand.

A shout burst from Catherine’s lips as the previously buried hunter barrelled into her, cleaver swinging down from above. She almost let out a laugh as it took off her raised arm, mirroring his own stump, ragged and drooling blood.

She lashed out as she hit the floor, her boot heel smashing into his groin and garnering a muted shriek as he flinched away. Scrabbling at the ground beside her, Catherine drew up her wand, a hoarse _‘Expelliarmus,’_ falling from her lips, quickly replaced by a grin as the cleaver flew from his hand and sailed over the rooftops, the ring of it echoing off the walls below. 

Wand still trained on the hunter, Catherine let loose a cannon shot of flame - a small meteor bursting into life and shearing through the hunters torso, melting leather to flesh and leaving a gaping knot of cauterized gore in its wake.

A single rattling gasp was all the hunter could muster as he collapsed, dead like the rest of the beasts.

Chest tight, Catherine stumbled to her feet and over to her fallen arm, pressing the limb against her bleeding stump and holding it there with a whispered spell. Flicking the cap off a blood vial, she drank it in seconds, before taking another one and pouring it over the wound. To her relief, it worked, the skin stitching shut and feeling coming to her fingers as the wound seemed to drink up the blood that was poured across it.

If it hadn’t… well, tossing herself off a building to get her arm back was hardly the craziest thing she had done so far.

Eyes locking onto the ladder ahead, Catherine gathered her spear and began to climb, both a silencing and disillusionment charm cloaking her from the hunter above. Her feet ached, the line of her arm throbbing horribly as the nerves rapidly stitched themselves back together, and she could feel a broken rib pressing sharply against her lungs.

The normalcy of the sensation struck her painfully, having become so accustomed to fighting on the verge of death that the idea of stopping for something so plain as a set of broken ribs and amputation seemed almost a show of weakness.

At least it would serve her well in killing Voldemort, she thought, almost eager to have the chance to spill his guts.

Her hand brushed against the top rung of the ladder, silently hoisting herself to the top of the tower and finally able to lay eyes on the man who had slowed her path. Not stopped, because she didn’t think anything at this point could truly stop her. Not if she kept coming back.

_A death by a thousand cuts. Not the most efficient use of immortality, but it works._

“I can smell the moon on you, hunter,” the man growled, turning to face her. His armor, if it could even be called such a thing, was tattered and marked by more burns than fresh leather, as if it had been dropped directly into a furnace only to be fished out once the fire had been choked out. Upon his left arm was a contraption, some sort of maddened mishmash of a piston and spearhead, the quiet hum of a motor chugging away as it occasionally spat out whiffs of smoke.

He was old, very old to be a hunter, face lined with age and his beard not white due to whatever affliction seemed to turn Yharnamites to albinism, but instead wiry and ragged - the kind of white that came with years, not trauma.

“Were you once a Dreamer?” Catherine asked, letting the charms drop and revealing herself to him.

“I’ve no interest in answering your questions. Have you just come to die, girl? Because I can offer you that, though, I fear it won’t stick.”

She growled, fingers ghosting at the handle of her spear. “Just tell me what happened here, about the Dream, and I’ll be gone. That’s all I want.”

“You make demands of me?” he boomed, fury lacing his words. “You kill these people. Sick, innocent people who have no one to blame but the Church. You slaughter them and then you want to speak?” He pushed the spearhead on his arm back, locking it into place. “Come as many times as you wish, murder the sick and dying, but you will have no answers from me.”

They stood there a moment, staring each other down. Catherine could scarcely hear her own breathing over the thunderous drum strikes of her heart, the blood pounding in her ears and her teeth set in a hideous scowl.

The man launched towards her, Catherine’s wand raised in a heartbeat. _“Legilimens.”_

Nothing met her. Nothing except for fury and grief, and the man - _Djura’s -_ need to see her bloodied and dying.

A curse upon her lips, she ducked beneath his swing, howling in pain as the strange weapon exploded violently as it passed by her head, deafening her and leaving her throat scorched as she inhaled the flames.

Magic brimming deep inside her, Catherine spat out the flames she had swallowed, wand twisting as she directed them from her mouth over his own blackened features. He screamed, lashing out blindly with his arm and carving through her chest.

She could smell her blood, taste the fire on the air and the sharp sting of burning flesh as he attempted to roll away from her.

But he was old, and even if he had been a Dreamer, that was long ago.

Fury coursing through her veins, Catherine dropped her weapons and leapt atop the man, smashing his head against the ground. She needed his blood, a taste, to get his memories. So she dove, sharp teeth tearing through his throat.

The blood that splashed across her face was as hot as the fires that still smouldered across the ruined city, sweet upon her tongue as she latched onto his throat and began to drink him dry. Djura gurgled, frightened murmurs slipping from his dying lips as he feebly attempted to push her away, but Catherine’s harsh grip kept his weapon arm pressed to the ground, the other held against his head and grinding his cheek against the stones.

She drank from him, throat bobbing and wet gasps escaping her as she sucked at his throat, his blood striking her mind with visions, shapes, utterances of the man that now lay cold and dying beneath her shaking body.

The thought of Catherine and Djura - their very being - for a moment, became one, two minds blending seamlessly to lay witness, through his eyes, as he put this ailing city to the torch.

The plague had spread in the night, and with Gehrman’s Workshop long disbanded and placed under the purview of the Church, it was tasked to mercenaries to cleanse it.

The Powderkegs had been chosen, not a battalion of hunters but instead a gang of pyromaniacs who had bastardized the Workshops weapons, finding ways to lace them with fire, or burst upon impact. And thus, Djura had been chosen.

  
Catherine watched, _felt_ as he slaughtered the people of Old Yharnam. She could taste their blood, could hear their dying screams as homes were set aflame, as the cursed beasts, swaddled in rags were chased into their warrens and routed out with bombs and gunfire. They had been sick, taken with the scourge long before the scourge had been known.

And then they had locked the doors, leaving him and his men to fend for themselves.

It was a coverup, she realized, just as he did, the insurmountable horror of it, quickly overtaken by unbridled rage. He had stopped, then, leaving the beasts alone and deciding from then on to wage his own, petty war against the Church, with nothing but a gun and a tower.

For years he stayed here, the beasts learning to trust him, to leave him to his own devices. It was then that he had been cut off from the Dream itself, the only memories he had left of the realm being a fading vision of the Doll and a hill, dotted in flowers.

But, he had seen something in the Churches crusade, a goblet locked away in a chapel far below, beneath the crooked towers and in a place that bore true life, not lined with stone but instead soil and grass. _Communion,_ his voice spoke, an echo of realization as he happened across the sacred object. A way to speak with the gods, to worship them as the hunters of old once had.

_“Shit.”_

Catherine rolled off his body, eyes screwed shut as she tried to force away the visions, to not see herself leaping at the man, soaked in blood and with fury in her eyes. But his ghost held tight, immaterial hands wrapped around her throat and forcing her to gaze on what she had done - who she had become.

She could hardly recognize herself, hair matted against her face and wet with blood, lips pulled into an animalistic snarl to reveal sharp, glinting teeth. Her eyes, though, seemed to shine too brightly, a hint of crimson to be found within the verdant green.

If it weren’t for her pupils not being a blotted mess, like spilled ink carelessly splashed upon the forest floor, she would think herself blood drunk.

It didn’t stop her from wondering.

So Catherine got to her feet, only offering a passing glance to Djura’s corpse as she threw herself off the tower to be crushed against the pavestones below, hoping it would quiet her shrieking mind.


	14. Chapter Fourteen | A Leap of Faith

A flayed man, too small for its skin and wrapped in a cloak of festering blood. It chuffed and lurched aimlessly within the confines of the tiny, crooked chapel, paying no heed to the girl painted red and panting at its door.

The path to the chapel was long and arduous, flanked with spines and creatures spitting poison from the dark, hordes of the things - _people -_ screaming with fright and anger as they charged towards her cloying scent. Those waxen pills Catherine had found earlier turned out to repel whatever plague dripped from their claws, the Doll having offered some soft comfort to her, explaining their use when she had returned to the Dream, silent and perched upon a bench next to Gehrmans garden hideaway.

So their bitter dregs were packed between her molars, a handful of the things chewed and swallowed without protest once she had been sliced once more across the belly, and many more after in her trek towards the chapel.

The beast within stood guard, unknowingly, for the chalice that rested proudly upon the broken altar. It seemed another wolf, yet somehow far, far worse. Ragged strips of meat draped over its body as if a mantle, purple fog and rancid bubbles of frothy spit dripping from its open maw as it shuffled to and fro, its body much too thin, leathery skin much too loose around its crooked form.

It was a skeleton, somehow still bearing rusted flesh, scalped and back spread wide to hang over its sharpened ribs. It made no sense, fangs long and crooked like pincers hanging from its chin. It burned her eyes.

It made her want to cry. It made her want to kill.

Perhaps this was once one of Djura's comrades, left by the man to guard the one thing in this city he knew was worth saving. The one thing he knew he _could_ save. The use of the chalice still felt unknown to her, but it was something holy and precious to Djura, so she felt she should take it from his ghost's unfeeling hands.

She had also stripped the man of his uniform and left it in a chest back in the Dream, after her inevitable return to his tower, along with the strange, piston-driven spear that was strapped to his wrist, and a note that had been tucked into the man's breast pocket, folded and unfolded so many times as to be near liquid.

_"The red moon hangs low, and beasts rule the streets. Are we left no other choice, than to burn it all to cinders?"_

His writings, presumably, the letters jagged and as unrefined as the corpse left naked upon a rooftop, throat torn and soul defiled by the blood visions that wracked her mind.

Catherine spied no red moon, though, the faraway stone pale blue and casting its milky light across the city, the shine of it battling quietly with the sharp orange of corpse pyres that littered the Yharnam underbelly.

So, she took one more look at the creature before her and shuffled into its abode, flames sputtering from the tip of her wand almost on reflex, Catherine hardly aware as the heat of it tickled at her ankles and left black marks upon her boots.

It lifted its head, no eyes to meet her gaze, instead deep shadows filled with drooping flesh that sagged behind its cheekbones and disappeared into its empty skull.

Somehow, she knew it saw her.

The two flew at each other, both reeling and erratic in their movements, as if their muscles were straining against the impulse of their mind.

Steel met flesh in a wet, slurping grind, her spear dragging through the creature's shoulder as she rolled beneath it, tearing a line down its belly in one swift movement.

It screeched, more noxious clouds spilling from its maw and dripping liquid poison upon the stones. The scent of it was thick - rancid - a sweetly cloying rot that clung to her nose and stabbed at her mind, mingling with the festering gore soaked into the creature's fur.

Fire did the trick, she found, alike all the other beasts Catherine had happened across in this city. It gorged upon the tainted flesh of the blood-cursed creatures of Yharnam, and revelled in their screams.

So Catherine ignored the blood pouring from her nose and drank in the fumes, thin streams of purple curling from the beast's mouth to be siphoned into her own, panting and sweating as she danced circles around its flailing body.

Instead, she focused on the screams. Focused on how the fire must feel as it gnawed at the beast's flesh.

The grin that split her face was stained in red, framed by scabbed lips - stretched too thin across a mask so sharp as to make a knife mad with envy. She cackled as it screeched, its howls a chorus and her wand the baton.

Paying no heed to the furious slashes the beast rent upon her body, apart from the occasional leap away to drain a vial and smash it against the ground, Catherine showed no sense of pain. Her arm, torn from bicep to elbow and gushing an arterial spray hardly garnered a whimper. Her ribs, cracked and prodding at her lungs, only added a hint of rasp to her already ragged breaths.

The blood that soaked her skin clung warmly to her, a fitted glove made fresh and firm, joyful in its embrace; and the lust that came with it, a fervor deep and wanting, sent shivers down her spine.

 _End it_.

She wasn't sure whether it was the god that lapped at her mind or if it was a thought of her own, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. Wrapped in miasmic fog, blood trickling from her eyes and ears, she leapt onto the beasts back, grabbing at the flaps of bloodied meat splayed over its shoulders and holding tight with an ironclad grip.

Catherine dug her legs in as it bucked, screaming all the while, her wand held between her teeth as she curled the fur of its neck round her fist and wrenched the things head towards her.

Arm raised - a manic Damocles - she paused for a fleeting moment before plunging her spear into the beasts skull, scrambling its brains and sending it crashing to the ground in a twitching heap.

Her cheer was a quiet thing when compared to the dying howls of the creature below her, but it was joyful all the same, marked by the whimpering shrill of giggles spoken past one lung and a throatful of blood.

Catherine crawled off the corpse unsteadily, one leg dragging behind her as she limped towards the altar, the chalice she had come for practically singing to her. Or, perhaps that was the maddened whispers of the blood, rejoicing to be united once more with a relic born for the sake of its sacred communion.

As her hands touched upon the chalice she could see as the familiar mist of the Messengers ebbed through the chapel, their tiny hands grasping at the artefact and dragging it back to the dream. She sighed, collapsing against the altar, skull knocking against the stone and sending yet more stars across her eyes.

She didn't want to close her eyes, but they were far heavier than they had any right to be. Her breathing slowed, her mind quieted, and her heart shuddered to a stop.

-::-

Harsh light, far too bright for candlelight or the glassy sheen of the Yharnam moon, stung at Catherine's eyes.

She groaned, hand raised and fingers forming a shutter against the minute trickle of sun that shone through the Hospital Wing windows. Catherine's body curled, as if to escape the light - as if it had forgotten what the sun was, like a face long lost to a fog of the mind.

" _Shit,"_ she hissed, scrabbling at the nearby nightstand for her glasses and wand, the routine of waking up in the Hospital Wing seared into her very being after five years of injuries and attacks.

Conjuring a mirror and offering it a glance, a sigh left her, relief, to find herself wearing the jumper and trousers she'd worn to the D.A. meeting, a reluctant thank you passed along to the god pulling her between Yharnam and Hogwarts.

 _It was not I,_ the voice spoke. _You may thank the Messengers for that._

" _My things?"_ Catherine whispered. " _My blood."_

_In your trunk._

Another sigh of relief. Thank god for small favours.

Finding her gaze drawn back to the mirror, Catherine almost shouted at the sight of her reflection.

The scars she had gained in Yharnam were becoming more obvious. Frighteningly obvious. One wrapped around her head, thin but sharp, the skin pulled inward in a crooked line.

Gascoigne's axe, she realized, the memory of it separating her skull from her jaw in two short swings having already faded to the back of her mind. Perhaps her brains had been scrambled one too many times already.

Across her neck stood a patchwork of burn scars, the flesh melted together and drawn tight from jaw to collar, gained from whatever strange weapon Djura carried.

Her skin, though, was sickly pale and pulled sharply over the bones of her face. Starved. She looked a prisoner of war, tortured and left to rot in some muddied camp. The muscles of her neck stood out, thick cords that seemed to strain against their prison of flesh, and she found herself lifting her hand to draw a finger across them.

Throat bobbing, she cast a glamour without hesitation, the fog of magic crackling over her skin and leaving Catherine with the image of someone who, to her, no longer existed.

This Catherine, the fake that stared back at her, was even more unrecognizable.

She went to stand, but found that she couldn't muster enough energy to even twitch her fingers - the sudden adrenaline of waking in an unfamiliar place already dwindling. Instead, she lay there, staring at the wall across from her.

Even the subtle shine of dawn stung her eyes, having not seen an inkling of light beyond the moon and corpse pyres in weeks. It was early, very early, the sun half risen and the halls deathly quiet.

Her heart began to thunder against the deafening silence, fingers tight around her wand and eyes dancing across the room looking for any sign of-

_No._

Her jaw creaked as her teeth ground together, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes shut tight.

" _I am in Hogwarts. I am safe,"_ she whispered, a mantra, fighting back against instincts seared into her flesh with bone and steel.

Silence meant ambush. Silence meant death.

Gut churning, Catherine told herself she had to move, swinging her legs over the side of the bed only to be interrupted as the back door swung open, Madam Pomfrey walking softly into the room.

"Don't you dare try and escape on me," she scolded, finger raised and eyebrows arched dramatically as she shuffled towards Catherine. "Sit. We need to chat."

"That bad?" Catherine asked on reflex, falling back against the headboard.

"No, not by your usual metric, but students passing out from exhaustion is frighteningly common. You wouldn't believe how many are brought in after having lived off of nothing but pepper-up and far too much coffee for a week." Pomfrey sighed, shaking her head. "You, though, have never been brought in for something so… mundane as sleep deprivation. Always broken bones and Merlin knows what else. Would you like to tell me _why_ exactly you haven't been resting, to the point where you passed out in front of your little study group?"

"Study group?"

"Hush. The only member of staff I know to be unaware of you and your friends' escapades is Professor Umbridge."

"Ah," Catherine murmured. "I- well, I've just been under stress, with… you know what and you know who. Guess I've been working myself too hard trying to get a handle on things."

"I imagined that was the case." Madam Pomfrey leaned forward, something soft in her eyes. "I'm expecting you to get a full night's rest every evening from hereon, understand? Otherwise you'll be spending the rest of the month here, under my supervision, and I imagine neither of us would enjoy that."

Catherine simply nodded in reply, the taste of common conversation upon her tongue alien. "Understood."

"Good, now, let's hope this is the last we see of each other this year." Pomfrey clapped her hands. "Off with you, and remember to _sleep,_ you silly girl."

"Thanks. I- thank you, Madam Pomfrey."

"You're very welcome. I'm sure Miss Granger and Mister Weasley are worried about you. You'd best be let them know you're doing just fine."

Catherine nodded and offered a small wave as she got up to leave, finding herself somewhat unsteady to be walking on even ground with fitting shoes. Blinking rapidly, she shuffled towards the Gryffindor common room, trying to settle her mind and bring herself back to… whatever way she used to think before all this.

She could hardly remember. The thought of worrying over grades, over how the Ministry saw her - spoke of her - it was so far gone and abstract that it didn't even seem worthy of consideration.

All Catherine could think of was _why her._

For what purpose was she dragged to Yharnam? What secrets did the city keep, beyond the sanctification by holy fire that Old Yharnam had endured?

'Leave no stone unturned' had been her method and madness so far in life, and the mystery of Yharnam itched at the back of her mind like a cancer, festering and unignorable.

 _Damn Voldemort and his petty war_ , she thought. What happened - was _happening_ in that city was far beyond him.

Catherine had to know, _needed_ to pry the information out of the cold, unfeeling hands of the Church - and if she happened to get her kicks out of carving her pound of flesh from the twitching corpse of that vile institution? Well, she certainly wouldn't judge herself.

She scoffed and continued on, every step silent until eventually trudging into the Gryffindor common room, fingers tracing over the not so familiar sofa and her eyes glazing over as she tried to take it all in.

It didn't quite click that she was back. Gaze foggy and her motions stilted as she sat before the empty fireplace, a flick of the wrist setting it alight. She stared into the flames, the heat of it stoking the blood inside her, almost friendly in its touch. It reminded her of Yharnam, the stinging pain of Djura's hand cannon flickering across her throat - the corpse pyres littering its unhallowed streets and lending some warmth to the perpetual night.

Catherine couldn't tear her eyes away, foot tapping wildly and her hands clasped tightly together, knuckles white and the dull sting of her nails pressing against the callused flesh the only thing keeping her mind from snapping in two.

_Back to Hogwarts, again._

But, she didn't feel like she was back. Not entirely. Yharnam had planted its roots in her belly and held strong, and Catherine knew it would never leave her, nor could she ever truly leave. It only took until now for it to click.

So she stared unblinkingly into the flames and let them consume her, doing her best not to think of blood trickling over cobblestone, or the fresh taste of it as it ran down her throat. For hours she sat, paying no heed to the few early risers stepping out passed her with hurried glances and fresh gossip on their tongue, only the steady decline of auburn and growing shine of snow-cast sunlight to mark the passing of time.

Soon, she became blank, no thoughts dancing through her mind - only the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of her beating heart and the ever-present cold sweat that trickled down her spine.

" _-therine."_

Her fingers traced at the scars on her face, the skin raised and furious.

" _Catherine."_

The memory of Gascoigne's axe would not leave her. Djura's vacant stare as she supped at his throat and drank him dry.

"Catherine!"

Faster than she herself could comprehend, Catherine spun around, wand pressed against the speakers throat and her other hand grasping at their wrist, holding it tightly in place.

" _Ow!"_

Catherine reared back, staring into Hermione's eyes. She looked aghast, mouth open wide and a pained flush across her neck, cradling her wrist and gaping at Catherine with what looked to be fear.

She couldn't find the words, only a soft gasp slipping from her lips as she hunched to look down at her own two hands.

"Catherine! What was that?"

"...I don't- I-"

"Catherine. You _hurt_ me."

She stared. "I- I hurt you."

" _Yes,_ we just sorted that out. I- Catherine what- what's going on?" Hermione spluttered, mouth opening and closing as she wrestled with her thoughts. "You fainted in front of everyone last night, you've been… off these last weeks, disappearing in the middle of the night, not sleeping-" Her throat bobbed. "What… just- please, tell me what's going on. Please? I've never seen you like this. You've never… you've never done _this_ before."

Catherine's gaze never wavered from Hermione's wrist, hand still cradling it loosely, fingers pinching at the cuff of her blouse.

"I don't-" She blinked, jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crumble in her mouth. "I can't…"

"Yes you _can,_ Catherine." Hermione had tears in her eyes, cheek puckered as she bit at it. "You can't keep hiding things from me, from Ron, from Si- _Padfoot._ You can't keep doing this!"

"I'm so sorry," she quavered, her voice a whisper. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't- _look,_ something is wrong, yes?"

A hum, fearful and quiet.

Hermione stepped around the sofa cautiously, hands raised. "Do you want to talk? Do you want a hug? Catherine, I- I don't know what to do to help you. Tell me. _Please."_

"I… I don't- I don't know."

All the anger had left her, the fury she held for the church and her budding hunger to tear it down, stone by stone, and set the corpses of its founders to cinder.

But she wasn't in Yharnam, not right now, and to be back in Hogwarts…

The horror of her actions, her _revelry_ as she stood atop that beast within the chapel and felt real triumph set in her bones and dance through her veins as she ground its brains to mush, suddenly became far too much.

Her first wander into the city had been… distant, unfeeling. Punctuated by short moments of clarity as she grappled with the thought of living a double life, stretched between two worlds.

The only difference was that she was starting to _like it._ Starting to enjoy the blood and fury with no qualms as to the morality of it, only motivated by hysterical enthusiasm as she carved her way through that city and left a pile of corpses - human and beast _(but weren't they just the same)_ \- in her wake.

"I don't think I know who I am anymore," Catherine uttered, and she knew it to be true. "I need to- I… _fuck,"_ she cursed, fists clenched as she tried to avoid striking herself over the head, hands aching to just hit _something._ "I need time to- to myself. I need to… I need to think."

"Catherine, you can't just run off again- I- _Catherine!"_

But she had already left, ducking out of the common room and disappearing around the corner before Hermione could even consider giving chase. She paced through the halls with a body changed by something beyond her comprehension, and it was only now that she began to think of the true horror of it all.

How could she possibly explain herself to anyone? To be dragged into some other world for the sake of… what? Some pithy gods entertainment? She could hardly believe it herself, and she'd spent-

Catherine didn't know how long she'd spent in Yharnam. Almost a month, maybe more.

" _Probably more,"_ she snarled, not caring if anyone heard. She could hardly keep track of things, knowing the days would blend together without the light of dawn to break routine. She could only hope to mark the passing of time through the motions of the beasts, their treks through the city and how long it took for them to come back to a borough she knew she had massacred.

So what was she to do, when she couldn't put voice to her pain? Was she to simply bottle it up, pretend all was well and then snap the next time someone touched her? Would she kill someone the next time she was startled? A friend?

Battle now ran in her blood, and even if she slit her own throat and let it run out dry she knew it would not cure her mind.

"Dammit…" she slammed her fist against the wall. " _Dammit!"_

_What do I do?_

And just as the thought came to her, she knew it to be her best option.

Perhaps death could keep her here in her own world, even if it could not lay hands upon her in Yharnam.

She could only hope.

"No Voldemort, no Paleblood, no nothing," she muttered, hand now pressed gently against the stone, her forehead leaned against it and drinking up the cold.

She'd have to say goodbye.

Could she, though? What if they knew, found out, would they try to stop her?

Hermione already knew something was wrong, and Ron could tell as well. He always seemed to pick up on these things first, before even Catherine had figured out what mood she was in.

_Shit._

What to do. What to do.

She could wait a few days, make sure they were happy, get her things in order. The Weasleys could use the money, they'd certainly done enough to help her. Maybe she could dedicate it, do something with-

 _No._ Catherine drank in the air, the thundering of her heart growing louder and louder. _I have to do it now._

Before she lost the nerve.

No longer silent, the quiet tread of a learned killer, her footsteps instead thundered through the halls as she sprinted headlong towards the astronomy tower, grinning all the while.

She would do it. She would end this game and spite whatever damnable god had decided to turn her already frightening existence into a waking hell.

The stairs, winding, took her up, up towards the sky and the blistering sun that she had never been quite so happy to see before in her life. It made her pause as she reached the top, her hand shading her eyes as she looked out across the Hogwarts grounds.

A touch of beauty before the end.

The sun struck the snow in a brilliant lattice, as though the world itself were a gem, polished and shining and so glorious to behold that it would blind whoever laid eyes upon it. The forest, capped with white and breathtakingly calm in the frigid, morning air.

It was magnificent.

Catherine twisted her wand, conjuring a slip of paper that she dashed a ramshackle note upon.

_Forgive me._

Pressing it against the arcades that circled the tower peak, she murmured a quiet sticking charm and left it to rest, the scrap hardly fluttering in the winter wind.

It would be spring soon, she realized, noticing how bits of green stood out among the pearlescent white, patches of snow melting slowly but surely.

Catherine grinned madly as she stepped to the edge, arms swaying almost childishly as she looked over the railing to the steep drop below. Not quite as tall as the ramshackle patchwork of buildings in Yharnam, but it would kill her all the same.

She just hoped it would stick.

A whistled tune pouring from her lips, she stepped over the railing and flung herself over the top, hearing the crash of footsteps from behind her as she slipped out of view and hurtled to the ground below.

The only thought that ran through her mind as she fell was a question. Who was it who had come to stop her?

That thought along with the rest of her broken mind jolted to a sudden stop, sputtering out of her ears and staining the snow red as she crashed into the earth, her body fading away as a white mist swept over her bloodied form.

-::-

A few moments later her eyes opened to see the small crater she now lay in, her body unbroken and the ground soaked in gore. She shook her head, feeling no less rattled than she had when she was sailing through the air.

Catherine screamed.


	15. Chapter Fifteen | Sisyphus

The silence was deafening, punctuated suddenly by a scream and the earth shattering realization that no matter what she did, she was trapped. Frozen, like stone, Catherine stared across the snow covered fields, an involuntary whine bubbling in her gut and flowing across the snow in hysterical murmurs.

_“It won’t stop,”_ she managed to gasp, blood pouring from her bitten lip. _“It won’t ever stop.”_

She scrabbled for her wand, pressing it to her head, before lowering her hand.

It wouldn’t change anything, but would it hurt to try?

Raising her hand again, a familiar acid green bubbled at the tip before she was interrupted by a sudden pop. Dazzled by the following flash of red, Catherine watched as her wand sailed into the hands of Dumbledore, the wizened man standing before her with fear in his eyes.

“Oh thank god.” He hurried forward, patting Catherine down for injuries and flinching at her maddened expression. “Catherine, what have you done? Your face-”

“I can’t leave,” she whispered, staring him in the eyes. “It won’t ever stop.”

“Catherine, I… Severus, please, I need your help.”

Catherine didn’t even turn to look at the man, cloaked in black and sweating furiously as he flicked his wand and conjured a floating stretcher. She did react when he went to lift her onto it, rolling over the snow away from Snape and shooting him a glare.

“Don’t touch me.”

Snape cursed as he advanced towards her. “Albus, she needs to be-”

_“Stupefy.”_

-::-

Catherine opened her eyes to the sight of the Hospital Wing, twice in one day and no less pleasant to look upon than before.

_Dumbledore stunned me._

She almost laughed aloud at the thought of the man knocking her out, trying to imagine what a sight she must have been, sat at the bottom of the tower in a puddle of her own blood with nary a scratch on her.

And then the weight of her prison settled once more over her shoulders.

“Immortal.”

The word tasted like poison, the knowledge that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she struggled, she would always stay caged.

The thought of suicide had always rested at the back of her mind, something she had fallen in love with over time. The chance to end things on her own terms. The chance to have control over the one, ultimate facet of her life.  
  
Existence.

Yet now she could do nothing, trapped by a god she didn’t even know the name of, what whims and fancies dictated its infinite, incomprehensible life.

_“Just let me die,”_ she mumbled, praying that the voice would listen

_Not yet, child._

And that was all that needed to be said.

So Catherine glared at the ceiling, arms rigid at her sides and itching to tear, to cut, to flay. She stared, and thought of Yharnam, of a city that asked her for only one thing - a willingness to slaughter.

She found herself craving the simplicity of it, the struggle for dominance over the beasts that walked its streets and the driving need to uncover whatever secrets the Church had left buried. Catherine wanted to know, _needed_ to know what happened there, and realized then that the constant threat of Voldemort seemed almost mundane in comparison to the mysteries that unhallowed city hid within its walls.

Catherine didn’t rest on the thought that she no longer knew how to speak to others, how to interact with a human being that she didn’t want dead, or who had no wish to kill her themselves.

Perhaps she could write Voldemort a letter.

She did laugh at that, a muted giggle that sounded more like the choked gasps of a dying woman, erratic and twisted enough to chill one's blood.

As her laughter died down, she perked up at the sound of arguing, voices trickling under one of the side doors in the wing.

_“Albus,”_ the drawling hiss of Snape burned the air, barely reaching Catherine’s ears. _“She’s lost her mind. Do you still think-”_

_“I pray not.”_

_“But-”_

_“Enough, Severus,”_ Dumbledore barked, the ire in his words clear. _“Now is not the time or place. A student of yours has just failed in an attempt to take her own life and yet you still attack her. I thought by now you’d be done with whatever petty grievances you had against James Potter, but it seems I was mistaken.”_

_“A cry for-”_

_“She threw herself off the Astronomy Tower, Severus. The fact that Catherine is alive and well is a miracle.”_

_“You saw her blood.”_

_“I did.”_

_“Then how do you explain her still living? If not for-”_

_“That is but a theory, Severus. She has not become possessed.”_

_“And how would you know? You’ve hardly spoken to the girl this year.”_

_“While that may be true-”_

_“No,”_ Snape fumed. _“It is gone from her. Yet she still has nightmares. What I saw in her head, Albus, made my heart stop. There’s no precedent for what Catherine is or what has happened to her. For all you know she could have… retained its properties.”_

_“You don’t believe-”_

_“I do.”_

Their voices quieted, too small for her to pick up on even with Yharnam blood in her veins. She turned away from the door, pulling the blanket over her chin and shutting her eyes as she waited for the two to leave.

They knew something was wrong, and listening to them ponder on it made Catherine’s skin itch.

She wanted to run, hide herself away so that they didn’t lock her up and leave her to rot in some godforsaken cage. Or perhaps they’d stick her in St. Mungos next door to Gilderoy Lockhart, mind addled and soaked in his own piss.

To live there, eternally, or kept as some researchers plaything…

Catherine couldn’t die. The Headmaster and Snape knew. Would they say a thing to the Ministry?

Shivers wracked her body as she imagined scalpels and cold walls, iron chains on her wrists and the empty eyes of an Unspeakable looming over her as they took their notes. They would tear her to pieces given the chance. Tear her apart and watch her come back, only to repeat the process.

If she couldn’t die, would she age? Would she be kept in a hidden chamber for all eternity, if the Ministry were to find out? Would she simply wither until nothing was left but dust and her broken mind, still shackled to the world regardless of her bodily death?

Perhaps that was what ghosts felt like, there but not quite. Did they all lose their minds, slowly, with the knowledge that they were trapped in an unfeeling existence? Never to touch, to taste, to live as truly as they once had, yet forced to watch as others did around them?

Could a ghost wish to die?

Her breath caught, choking, as she wondered what her fate would be, even after all this was done. Djura and Eileen had escaped the dream, lost nearly all memory of the place and regained their mortality. Would she be so lucky?

The door opened and she listened as Dumbledore and Snape stepped through, a few murmured words passing between them before Snape marched out of the Hospital Wing, not stopping to offer a passing glance Catherine’s way as he slammed the doors behind him.

“Catherine, awake already?”

She cursed, opening her eyes. “Yes.”

The Headmaster sighed heavily as he conjured a chair at the foot of her bed, and if she didn’t know it was her imagination she would have sworn she’d heard his bones creak as he sat down.

“You gave us all quite the scare today.”

Catherine blinked wearily at the man, mind shuttered as best she could. “I did.”

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, simply looking at one another. Dumbledore was haggard, visibly so, beard tousled and his robes askew, changed from when she had seen him at the foot of the tower that morning.

“What time is it?”

“About half one, last I checked. It seems as though my stunning charm is a mite bit stronger than I’d first thought.”

She hummed. “I’m surprised it worked.”

“Why?”

Catherine laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Try.”

  
“No.”

Another sigh left the man, heavy and wounded. “I only wish to help you, Catherine.”

“You can’t.”

“I cannot help if you will not tell me. You need to let me help you Catherine, otherwise I am powerless.”

“You saw what happened, Headmaster. You saw the blood. The crater. You know what I did, but somehow I’m still here, alive.”

His face fell, distraught. “You could have died, but accidental magic-”

“Don’t lie to yourself. I died. It just didn’t stick.”

Dumbledore turned towards the Hospital Wing doors, as if judging them, before taking his wand from his robes and locking them from afar. Another wave of his hand and an artificial hush fell over the two of them, a warm blanket of silence resting on their shoulders.

“Why, Catherine?”  
  
“Why what?”

“Don’t-” he bit his lip, eyes shut tightly. “You tried to kill yourself, Catherine. I must ask why.”

“It felt right at the time.”

“Does it now?”

Catherine shrugged. “It didn’t work. Why would I try again?”

Rubbing at his eyes, Dumbledore exhaled slowly. “What happened to you?”

“Who was in the Astronomy Tower? I heard footsteps behind me when I jumped off the edge.”

“Professor Snape. Your friend, Miss Granger, had run to find a professor. She said that she was worried about you, the portraits told Severus where you had gone. He… connected the dots, as the muggles say.”

“Severus Snape tried to save me,” she enunciated. _“Snape.”_

“Of course. He is a teacher, you are a student. Regardless of whatever grudge the two of you hold he would not simply allow you to die.”

“So he did it out of some sense of duty?”

“No! Heavens, no. He did it because it was the right thing to do, and no matter what you may say or believe I have utmost certainty that he does not hate you.”

Scoffing at the very idea of it, Catherine leaned back against the headboard. Doubtful, after hearing Dumbledore and Snape’s conversation in the sideroom. The wonders of eavesdropping and vampiric hearing.

“So, now what?”

“Excuse me?”

“What now?” Catherine gestured to herself. “Am I to be locked up? I imagine the Ministry would be excited to get their hands on someone unkillable.”

“Catherine!” Dumbledore thundered, getting to his feet. “You couldn’t possibly imagine that I would- to even _consider_ such a thing… I- do you truly think so little of me?”

Her lip curled in contempt, resentment building, the learned fury of Yharnam hot in her veins. “Well, what? Am I just going to start going back to classes as if nothing happened? Like the whole school doesn’t know that I jumped off the tower? _How did you survive, Catherine? You trying to meet your parents, Catherine?”_ she mocked, leaning forward. “The Ministry is already attacking me, you think they’re not going to hear about this from Umbridge? What am I supposed to do, tell them I was stopped? An _arresto momentum_ would still tear my insides apart falling at that speed.

“So, what’s there to do, Professor? I sit and wait until they bring in their own ‘counselor’ and drag the knowledge out of me? I’m sure Umbridge already knows about the state I was found in, that she’s already had a look at the dent I put in the ground and filled with my blood.” A derisive laugh slipped from her lips, cold as ice. “You think they’re not going to - what - connect the dots? And then you sit in front of me asking why I did it instead of how I survived? Seems like you already have an idea of what happened. Possessed, was it?”

Dumbledore blanched. “How could you have-”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me,” she interrupted, waving her hand. “I heard your conversation. So, what am I supposed to have _retained?_ What’s the big theory as to why the Girl Who Lived just won’t die?”

“You should not, _could not_ have heard a word of that. I cannot-” Dumbledore paused, swallowing heavily.

Catherine felt as he touched at her mind, furiously throwing up a barrier to halt his entry.

“What has happened to you, Catherine?” The horror in Dumbledore’s voice was evident, his expression stricken with grief. “Is it just you, in there?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why did you throw yourself off the tower, Catherine? Severus told me of what he’d seen during your lessons, and what he did manage to make out frightens me more than I care to say.”

“What do you mean, _just you in there?”_

“Your scar is faint. Healed, just a thin line across your forehead. You didn’t notice?”

“What?”

“But something has settled in you, something dark and terrible. I can hardly sense it, but what I can… it’s something I’ve never seen before, except in him.” His features shifteded into something cold and forceful, a glint of anger in his eyes. “Is it just you, or has Tom finally slipped through and taken over?”

A blink. She had just a moment, one moment to blink, and she was bound - shackles strapped to her wrists and chaining her to the bed. Catherine shouted, a roar on her lips as she strained against them.

“I will do my best to help you, Catherine, but I fear that-” he choked on his words, eyes flickering towards Catherine’s scar. “I fear I may be too late.”  
  
“Let me go!” she screamed, wrists bleeding as she pulled angrily at her restraints. “What are you doing?”

Dumbledore instead stood in front of her, his gaze steeled. “I’ll get him out if it’s the last thing I do, I promise you this.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered.

“No, I can see you in there, Tom. I can see your magic. Just the same, the _exact_ same. You thought you could hide from me, in the mind of _her?_ You thought I wouldn’t see your corruption?” he hissed, every word laced with outrage. “Are you speaking through her? Guiding her actions? Was it you that pushed her off that tower?”

Teeth gritted, Catherine pressed down on her thumb as hard as she could, relief washing over her as it snapped into place, her hand slipping through the shackles. She reached for her wand but Dumbledore was far too quick - conjuring a rope from thin air and pulling her hand away, the length of it curling round her wrist and tying her to the bed frame once more.

“Let me go!” Catherine shouted, petrified.

“I am so, so sorry Catherine.”

Her vision filled with red, and she knew no more.

-::-

She found herself in the dungeons upon waking up, a wretched gasp shaking her as she shot out of the prison cot and rushed the bars, grappling uselessly with the cold iron that gated her path..

The cell was small but clean, the cot in one corner and a small alcove worn into the wall opposite it, a hole carved through the centre. She didn’t need to think hard to know what that was for. No natural light trickled into the cell, instead a cage strung to the ceiling filled with everlasting fire.

_“Oh god.”_ She pressed her hands to her face, running them down her jaw as she looked around. _“He locked me up. He’s insane.”_

Dumbledore thought she was Voldemort. He thought she was _Voldemort,_ or at least, Voldemort was somewhere inside her mind.   
  
Catherine knew there was a connection, something about her scar that linked her to that vile man. Dumbledore had told her as much, her occlumency lessons were to defend herself against that connection, to stop him from slipping into her mind, but there’s no possible way she could be _possessed_ by the man. Not so far away, not without him being there.

But Dumbledore thought she was possessed, thought some small part of Voldemort had taken root inside her and was changing her, and that thought had landed her here.

“He’s really gone mad.”

The Headmaster was old, that much she knew, but to do this…

She couldn’t believe it, and she was the one standing in the Hogwarts Dungeons - she assumed - with nothing but a bed and a hole in the wall to piss into. “He’s gone mad.”

Because there was no way she was possessed, she knew that, and her jaunt through Yharnam had done something to make Dumbledore think otherwise.

_He could taste the blood on you, the moon's scent and my kind's blessing._

“You!” Catherine shouted, grabbing at the bars. “Get out of my head! You did this! _You put me here!”_

_Circumstances lead you here, but it was not I. You should thank me, girl, for saving you from Flora’s grasp._

“Stop speaking in riddles,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

_You were taken to the Moon’s dream, though I freed you of your bindings long before she drew you to Yharnam. The things she would have you do to leave her grasp are better left unspoken._

“What, you expect me to thank you? That one god got to me instead of the other?”

_I only expect you to continue as you have._

“Doing what? Killing everything I see?”

She swore against the silence, smashing her head once against the bars and relishing in the pain it brought, the blood that trickled down her forehead.

Pain kept her lively, a comfort to remind her that she was still aware, not screaming in some padded cell far away from here. Pain kept her sane.

The quiet click of heel on stone echoed off the dungeon walls, growing closer and closer. She gripped the bars tight, pressing her face against them as she tried to look round the corner and see if Dumbledore had come to visit her, or if she was lucky enough for there to be a wandering student who had somehow found themselves lost.

Neither, she found, instead the darkened silhouette of Severus Snape gliding towards her, his face impassive.

Catherine never thought she would ever be glad to see the man.

_“You need to get me out of here,”_ she hissed, trying to press herself further into the bars as if she would fall through them to safety. _“Please, Dumbledore has gone mad.”_

He only stared at her. “Dumbledore has sent me here to help you, Miss Potter.”

“Help me?” Catherine wanted to smash her head against the bars again, eye twitching as she restrained herself. “You’ve let a madman lock me in a cell.”

“He has good reason to believe that you may be possessed by the Dark Lord.”

She snapped, furious. “Good reason? _Ha!_ You wouldn’t know good reason if it bit you on the ass. You’re a petty, hateful bastard who detests me because of who my father was. I heard you speaking to Dumbledore, even he knows you have a grudge. So what then? You win by taking it out on me? A fully grown man, a professor, bullying an eleven year old on her first day in school, her entry into a world she had no idea exists? Good reason? Fuck you.”

Catherine spat on the floor. “You’ll both be locked up for this insanity. The Ministry already hates Dumbledore, and you’re a Death Eater. You think they’ll treat you kindly for this?”

Snape didn’t speak, jaw rigid and lips pursed. “You’ve always been petulant, but now you finally reveal your true colours, don’t you?” He scowled, leering down at her. “I have come here to help you, yet you now try to leverage your status against me? As if the name of the Girl Who Lived will carry some weight with a Ministry who has labelled her as insane? Aptly so?”

_“Fuck you.”_

He ignored her. “Dumbledore believes you to be possessed.. I will be visiting you to see whether Dumbledore is correct in his assumptions. You will not leave here until the issue is sorted. Understood?”

_“Fuck. You.”_

“I will see you tomorrow, Miss Potter.”

As Snape went to leave, Catherine spoke. “I’m not possessed.”

“You would say that if you were, wouldn’t you?” he drawled, turning to face her.

“I’m not possessed and I know it.” A smile crept across her face, splitting it in two. “Does that scare you? To know that this is me, not Voldemort?”

  
  
“If that were to be true, then yes. I’d find that quite… worrisome.”

“Imagine how I feel.”

He sneered, though the expression was forced, weightless. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“What’ll you do when you find out it’s just me!?” Catherine roars, rattling the bars. “Will you try to put me down? Keep me locked up? A cage won’t hold me, Snape!”

Silence meets her rage, drowning her words and leaving them to hang in the air, unheard and dying.  
  
The only part of her that can.


	16. Chapter Sixteen | As Sculptured Marble Saint

For the rest of the evening she sat in her cell, eyes closed and waiting for Snape’s next visit.

She had tried to hang herself against the bars at some point in the night, only to wake, back pressed to cold iron and her bed sheet noose unraveled across her shoulders.

It was worth the effort, she told herself.

Catherine didn't know how much time had passed between the moment her heart had stopped and her eyes had reopened, coughing painfully and her throat sore beyond belief. It didn't feel like much, if any time at all - nor could she tell so far below ground

So all Catherine could do was exercise patience - what little she had - and think without the haze of Yharnam clouding her mind.

She could feel it twitching somewhere just below the surface, a rabid beast waiting to be uncaged. It was both terrifying and of some comfort to know what she was now capable of, and Catherine didn't know which feeling would win out in the end. The taste of blood still held faint on her lips, a memory, the screams of beastmen as she cut them down like a farmer through a field - scythe swinging with wild abandon.

What Catherine worried over was what Dumbledore and Snape were capable of.

The fear the Headmaster must feel to think her possessed, to go so far as to have her locked up here - she couldn't imagine it. 

To heal her, he said.

High hopes and promises from a man who had already promised her so much in life. Words too weighty for him to lift, not without crushing his own spine in the effort.

Catherine almost pitied him. An almost detached sense of fascination as she considered what he would feel, how he would react once it all clicked and he realized that this was really her. That somehow, some way, Catherine's life had taken another step towards insanity.

_ More like it leapt right in,  _ she snorted, the cosmic comedy of it all too much to handle.  _ How could I even begin to explain? _

Because that's what she would have to do, mind now settled (as best as it could be) and the pressures of returning to the waking world becoming just a touch more palatable. Explain herself.

A manic, suicidal, time hopping teenager having to explain why exactly she threw herself off a building and somehow lived, only to threaten the professors who had come to her aid.

"I'm done for."

Surely, Dumbledore would believe her.

Catherine wouldn't take her chances with Snape, even if she let the man rummage through her mind, but Dumbledore?

Perhaps he could help her? Find a way to break whatever tether bound her to Yharnam?

Her heart stuttered at the thought.

_ It could work. He's old. Powerful. Probably the most knowledgeable wizard in Europe, now that the Flamel’s are dead. He'd have to know something. _

Maybe he'd even heard of Yharnam? Read about it somewhere? Catherine grinned, never having thought she'd be so happy to be locked in a cage.

But she didn't want to get her hopes up.

A small part of her wondered if she would have to find a way to break out. To ferry the Messengers over, or perhaps… even stay in Yharnam indefinitely.

To choose between a life of endless nights and beastblood rivers, or one left caged in the only place she'd ever called home?

Well, the choice seemed a bit too easy to her. Better to live free and frightened than locked away to rot, alone, the rest of her mind slowly dripping from her ears until nothing remained but hurried whispers and the cackles of a broken woman.

Perhaps that was what Bellatrix Lestrange felt like? Or the rest of the Death Eaters tucked away in Azkaban? Or-

_ Sirius. _

She hadn't even thought of the man, her godfather, uncle in all but name. All Catherine had thought over the last two years was if she would ever have the chance to live with him, to get away from the Dursleys and finally find some semblance of a loving home.

Or did she just want to get away from the Dursleys? Was her focus not on Sirius, but them? A need to escape?

"Oh."

Maybe now, with the corpse of her sanity left to rot in some stinking gutter her thoughts had changed. Perhaps back then, before…  _ this,  _ she had truly wanted to spend her time with Sirius. To get to know him, to learn about the man who could have raised her, who she could have called her father if the cosmos had not decided otherwise. Once upon a time, she did. But now?

Catherine just wanted to be alone.

Speaking seemed far too difficult. The very thought of having to strike up conversation with one of her classmates, one of her  _ friends,  _ stood indomitable before her. She would rather fight the Cleric once more, spill its blood on that narrow bridge and feel her mind splinter at the very sight of the thing, than be forced to sit down and speak with Ron about how his weekend had gone.

Because how could she speak with him, hold a conversation with him when all she could see when she looked in his eyes was his pale, rotting corpse, broken by her own hands?

How could Catherine even  _ think _ to love Hermione when she had done so much wrong in so little time, and would have to continue in her rabid search to find Paleblood, whatever and wherever the ichor could be?

The notion of suicide grew yet more tempting at the thought, and Catherine did her best to quash the futile urges.

She couldn't die, no matter how much she wanted.

Exhausted by it all, she was tempted by the idea to simply do nothing. To sit and rest and watch the world pass by, hoping that her mind would go with it. Perhaps she could even dose herself with a Draught of Living Death, and then be placed in some sort of stasis?

Would that not be death, in a way? Thoughts locked away, her body frozen to the steadily gnawing fangs of time?

It was certainly a thought.

So Catherine did her best to whittle away the hours, minute by minute thinking and planning on what it was she could do to get herself out of this mess. The longer she spent in the cell, the more sober she became.

The mania still hadn't left her, not in its entirety, but enough so that the familiar roil of embarrassment and horror sent pangs through her gut and made her throat thick with a tangible sense of regret.

She almost laughed, thinking herself to be more embarrassed about breaking into suicidal hysterics than she was ashamed.

Catherine didn't know if shame was the right feeling, not with what she'd been through.

"Probably the sanest thing for me to do," she muttered, tapping her fingers against the wall in a staccato lurch.

"And what would that be?"

Her head raised slowly, unamused. Must have used a silencing charm to sneak up on her. "Kill myself."

Snape stared back unflinchingly. "Why?"

Catherine ignored him, eyes tracking across the ceiling and following each ridge in the ancient stone. Her lips were pursed, one brow hardly raised. "Like I said before, you wouldn't believe me."

She looked back to Snape, the man sat comfortably atop a conjured chair, spartan yet plush, a notebook and quill in his lap. "Why do you think I'm possessed?"

"Your magic has changed. Dumbledore and myself noticed it is eerily alike the Dark Lord's. Almost identical."

A hum of acknowledgement. More tapping.

"You haven't slept at all."

Not a question. A statement.

"I don't really do that anymore. What day is it, exactly?"

"You don't know?"

She smiled, waving her fingers over her temple. "S'all a bit muddled up."

"The twenty first of February."

"Huh. Thought it was almost March."

"You said you don't sleep anymore." Snape tapped his quill against the page. "How long has that been going on?"

"Dunno. A month, maybe longer."

"And you never once thought to go to Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, or the Headmaster?"

"Knew they couldn't fix it. Knew they'd probably put me down here."

"Fix  _ what,  _ exactly?"

She grinned. "Not human anymore. Haven't been for a while now."

Snape froze, the scratching of his quill going silent. "...not human? You idiot girl, if you were bitten by a vampire or werewolf the  _ first _ thing you should have done is go to a professor!"

"I'm neither of those things. Don't really know what you could call me to be honest." She picked at her nails. "Bit similar to a vampire though. Only live off blood now."

"You've been- what…  _ excuse me, Potter,  _ but did you just say you've been living off of nothing but blood for the last month and you  _ don't _ believe you're a vampire?"

"Nope." Catherine sighed, two fingers pinched at her forehead. "Look, I know I hate you. I know you hate me. Let's get past that and focus on what needs to be done here."

She turned to face him properly, elbows on her knees and leaning forward. "I have no fucking idea why these things have happened to me, but I know what they are and what they're being caused by. It isn't Voldemort, and-" she choked, shaking her head. "I really wish it was. Truly. Because with him? It would make sense. But this- this is beyond me, this is beyond you, and I think it's beyond Professor Dumbledore."

"What, pray tell, is  _ beyond _ the Headmaster and myself."

"I- I honestly don't even know how to describe it without seeming more insane than I already am."

Snapes brow raised imperiously. "You call yourself insane?"

"Yeah." Catherine barked out a laugh. "Yeah, I do. You- you remember what you saw in my head, right? Wolves? That weird city? I lied to you, lied to Dumbledore when you asked what it was."

"You told us that they were visions, nightmares sent to you by the Dark Lord."

"I really,  _ really _ wish they were."

_ Oh god. _

Catherine took a deep, shuddering breath, fingers shaking as she tried desperately to calm herself.

"It's real. It's all real. I don't know- I can't- I have no idea how to even  _ begin _ to describe what's going on, but every time I fall asleep - no stunning, no magic - just me closing my eyes, I go there. I go to this… this city - Yharnam, it's called - and I can't even begin to explain… I can't-"

She stood, pointing to her face, at the scar that wrapped around her head in one unbroken line. "See this? I got it when I got my head chopped off.  _ Whap."  _ She slammed her hand into her open palm. "Two swings of an axe. This? This right here?" Catherine ran her finger across the burns on her neck. "Had a... cannon, or something like it go off next to my throat, could hardly even breathe. I'm covered in scars now,  _ covered in them,  _ because for some reason I'm brought to that place and I just can't die. But scars? They stay with me."

Catherine giggled, the sound sharp, fragile as it echoed across the dungeon. "Can't even die here, too. I tried, you saw me, it's why I'm here. Tried to do it again, hung myself against the bars. Just woke up with a sore throat. So, whatever you think, whatever Dumbledore thinks, it's not that simple."

She sat back down, letting out another deep breath, this one spitting out the pressure she had felt bubbling up inside her. Her shoulders fell, relaxed, and it felt for the first time in weeks like she could let her guard down without having her throat ripped out a second later.

_ "...experiencing delusions and hallucinations,"  _ Snape mumbled, quill dancing across the page.  _ "Has possibly scarred herself intentionally, only to be resurrected by the combination of blood and soul magics. Her condition is wholly uni-" _

Catherine could only gape at him, interrupting his ramblings.  _ "Excuse me? _ You think I'm… hallucinating? That this is all in my head? You think I did this to myself?"

Placing his quill back down, Snape only offered her a quiet sigh, the contempt in his voice palpable as he spoke. "I think a lot of things, Potter, but it is not I who is in charge of your… tenure. All I am is an observer, unwilling of course, but an observer nonetheless. But… it would not be beyond you to act in such an attention seeking manner, even impaired as you obviously are."

All she could do was blink stupidly, before the hatred crashed down upon her.

Fury was what Catherine felt, looking at the man in front of her. Fury at the unfairness of it all, fury to be judged - to be consigned to be little more than an insect in his eyes - all because of the actions of her teenage father.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you, seeing me in here." Her lip curled, teeth - _ fangs _ \- bared. "You're loving every second of this, knowing that something has finally broken me. Do you really hate who my father was that much? That this?  _ This?"  _ she snarled, nails dragging at her scars. "Is what I've become? You're what, mid thirties? Bit past? Don't you think it's a bit sad,  _ Snivellus, _ don't you think it's a touch… I don't know,  _ sadistic _ to enjoy this?"

She wrapped her fingers around the bars, pressing her face between them. "I always knew you were scum, before I even saw that mark on your arm. But this? This is by far the lowest you have - could  _ ever _ stoop. Getting off on seeing me locked in a cage… do you feel like you've won, Snape? Like my dad is looking down on this and feeling anything but pity for the sad, conniving little prick I see in front of me?”

“How  _ dare _ you.”

Catherine sneered.

"What? Does that hurt to hear? Because it’s true, that's all he could ever feel for you. All I can ever feel for you." Catherine smiled, face twisted into something terrible, for it caused even Snape to flinch. "All you are is a bitter, lonely man who has never known love. Never known a friend. Do the staff here even get along with you, or are you just tolerated in every circle you're involved in? Dumbledore's bitch. Voldemort's potions whore. Hogwarts most hated." She laughed in his face, revelling in the way his skin paled. Loving how he pulled away from her, pressing himself further into his chair. "The only thing anyone could ever feel for you is pity."

_ "Enough!"  _ Snape roared, jumping to his feet. "You vile,  _ hideous _ child!"

"Oh! Did I hit a nerve? Did you feel that one, Severus?" Catherine gnashed her teeth. "Not that fun when I bite back, is it? You think I care one bit about what goes on at Hogwarts anymore? You think you scare me? That I'll just sit here and let you take  _ pleasure _ in my confinement? I’ve seen inside your head. I know what makes those little gears in your head tick, tick, tick away."

He didn't respond, wand flickering as he vanished the chair and hurried out of the dungeons, footsteps echoing loudly as he stomped away.

"See you tomorrow!" she called, sticking her arm out beyond the bars and waving.

Catherine would chip away at the man until he believed her. She would worry away at his mind like water against stone until he could do  _ nothing _ but see what she had seen, know what she now knows, and convince Dumbledore to set her free of her cage.

It was that, or find a way to leave, but Catherine now thought it better to be here and live with a known danger than to escape and have the Ministry on her tail.

Because Umbridge would find a way, having the Minister's ear and all.

No, that was a slippery slope Catherine had no interest in falling down. Not unless it was her only option.

She could always try and sleep, go back to Yharnam and stretch her legs. Perhaps she could see how the Doll was, speak with Gehrman and learn more about his tools, or-

_ Oh no. _

Gascoigne's daughter.

How long had Catherine spent lost in Old Yharnam and the Cathedral Ward looking for secrets? A week? Longer?

She couldn't tell the passing of time, not with a perpetual night. Not with sleep never knocking on the doors of her mind.

Catherine could guess, yes, but that's all she could do. It felt like weeks. It could have been longer, but she'd never know unless she happened across a Yharnamite who'd bothered to keep time through the nightmare their city had birthed.

_ Oh no, oh no no no no no no no- _

Catherine grabbed at her hair, fingers looping through the ragged strands and stumbling backwards, landing against the ground with a thud as her eyes opened wide with the realization of what she had done.

"I've killed her."

She had as good as murdered that little girl. Left her to die in the cold and dark through  _ her  _ negligence.

Because there was no chance the girl had stayed inside with incense lit, right? That the likelihood of her having enough food, enough water, to last through however long Catherine had left her alone and scared, was slim to none? That a beast hadn't found its way into her home and torn her to shreds?

Catherine felt as though she would be sick, the glassy eyes of Djura long passed from her thoughts and instead the fragile, miniature form of a girl too pure for a city so tainted, standing in her mind's eye.

All she could do was hope - pray to a god she didn’t believe in that the girl was still safe.

She’d never even gotten her name. Maybe she never would.

Her ears almost swiveled at the sound of more footsteps, these ones more quiet. Reserved.

It must be Dumbledore.

“Headmaster.”

Catherine pulled her hands away from her head, blood and ragged scraps of skin clinging to the underside of her fingernails. She wiped them off on her trousers, ignoring the pooling warmth in her scalp. Not the first time she’d accidentally hurt herself.

“Catherine.”

Dumbledore looked awful, unkempt. His robes were the same ones he had worn the other day, wrinkled, and the collar stained with food. But his eyes showed his true distress, heavy with bags and looking more tired than she’d ever seen them before.

He hadn’t slept.

“Snape seems to be enjoying himself a bit too much, seeing me locked up in here.”

“I am aware, and beyond disappointed,” he stated, voice even. Catherine didn’t know if he was speaking about her, or Snape, but she didn’t find herself caring. “I found myself privy to your conversation with him just now. Sound carries quite far down here.”

“Eavesdropping? I’d never thought you the type, sir.”

He sighed. “Only when it comes to the safety of my students.”

Catherine studied him, biting at her lip. “My safety, or that of the others?”

Dumbledore ignored her question, settling down on the cold stone crossing his legs, hands resting comfortably in his lap. “Tell me Catherine, why you do not believe yourself to be possessed?”

“Scars gone, isn’t it?” she asked, tapping her forehead. “Didn’t notice until now, but it must have happened the first time I’d died. I thought Voldemort could only get in from there, so - no scar, no problem. At least- no problems from him. Yharnam, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.”

“Yes, Yharnam. It’s a city, you say, one you appear in when you dream?”

“Not quite. I… I’m sort of drawn between here and there. I close my eyes to rest, I open them in Yharnam. Fall asleep there, and I wake up back home.”

Dumbledore only nodded, motioning for her to continue.

“I know Snape thinks I’ve lost it, that I’m mad. He’s right, though, but not exactly. The things I’ve seen, Professor, the things I’ve done… it’s only been a bit over a month I think, maybe more spent over there, but it feels like so much longer.” Her brow furrowed. “You could check my age, couldn’t you? See if I’m older than I’m supposed to be?”

“Something that could easily be accomplished using an aging potion. I’m sure you remember the Weasley Twins' attempt to bypass my age line last year.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do then, to show you this is really me. You can look into my head, but that can be faked too, can’t it? Truth potion?”

“Correct. None of those options are infallible, not when it comes to Tom.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Sit here and rot until you decide I’m a danger or if I’m not?”

Dumbledore froze at that, throat bobbing. “I’m afraid, Catherine, that regardless of whether or not my theory stands you are very much a dangerous individual. To just yourself or others, I do not know, but you are dangerous all the same.”

“So… what? What am I supposed to- am I expected to just wait patiently? Just pretend that nothing is wrong?” Her mouth opened and closed, eyes shut tight. “I don’t know what to do, Professor. I’m… I’m losing my mind, and I’m forced to watch as it slips away. I thought, maybe, I could die and everything would just stop, but I’m not even allowed that much. So, you tell me, what am I supposed to do? What do  _ you _ think is the reason why I’m still here, sitting in front of you? Because Snape seemed to have a lot of ideas as to why, and all of them end in me being locked away for the rest of my life.”

“To be honest, I do not know. You are... unique. The aftereffects of your having survived the killing curse so many years ago and the protections your mother weaved... I believe them to have collided, quite spectacularly, and resulted in something never before seen in the history of our kind. A form of immortality, or something very close to it.” He tilted his head, both sadness and curiosity in his eyes. “You must know how deeply it pains me to see you like this, to be the one hurting you so terribly, but I hope you understand that- that you were erratic beyond belief. You have been for the last few weeks, I assume since your episodes began. Hurting yourself, hurting others, throwing yourself off the tower… and you say you died even before that. That wasn’t your first suicide attempt, was it?”

_ “Episodes,” _ Catherine muttered. “So you don’t believe me either.”

“I don’t know what to believe. All I have to work on is the information presented to me. This is why I am sitting here speaking with you.” He sighed deeply, running his fingers through his scraggly beard. “I need to know what has happened to know what can be done to fix it.”

“I thought you cared for me.”

Dumbledore inhaled sharply, eyes glimmering. “Very much so. More than you can imagine. If I could take this from you, take it unto myself… I would do so without hesitation.”

“I promise you, you don’t.” She shuddered. “You couldn’t even dream up the things I’ve seen. Yharnam makes no sense, none.” Catherine almost felt tempted to tell him of the god in her head, whispering sweet poison in her ear and pushing her to lengths unknown.

That, he could never believe.

“It’s a city that was built on top of a city, put together by the hands of a madman. It just grows up, up, up, and never seems to stop. But the beasts that live there, beasts that used to be  _ people, _ Professor, they kill everything in sight. Some of them still look human, huge, hideous things. I saw one jumping inside of another's chest as if it was a puddle, giggling as the blood splashed over its ankles.

“I’ve seen broken down doors and swam in the stink of their rotting owners, reduced to a pile of meat and left to fester on the porch, their bones splintered and the marrow sucked clean through.” Catherine stared into his eyes, imploring him to understand, to  _ look. _ “My mind is an open book, Professor. All you have to do is turn the page.”

She felt no knock at her skull, gut lurching as Dumbledore turned away, refusing to make eye contact. “Thank you for speaking with me. I will have the house elves bring you breakfast soon.”

Catherine waved him off. “No need for that Professor. I’m sure you heard, I don’t need much for sustenance anymore.”

“Blood, then.”

“And where would you get that?”

“We have had vampire students in the past. It would be of no trouble, I assure you,” he explained, hands clasped behind his back.

While his body language kept calm, Catherine could smell the fear on him. Could taste the worry on the air.

“I’ll survive. Although, it doesn’t really change much if I don’t, does it?”

Dumbledore’s heart fluttered. She could hear the stutter, how it hiccoughed for a moment before springing back to life. “You may be… confined, at the moment, but you will not be treated as though you were a common prisoner.”

A nod and he was off, gliding away as if he had never been there in the first place.

_ What was it, in every police show or book? _ Catherine asked herself, sitting down on the cot.  _ Good cop, bad cop _

She’d never really been given the chance to watch anything, only catching snippets of different dramas and the occasional episode of Coronation Street that Petunia was so fond of, but that was a phrase constant from screen to novel.

It seemed apt, here.

The distress Dumbledore and Snape had shown was very much real, but the motive was all the same: learn how deep Voldemort’s claws had sunk, and tear them out root and stem. Catherine was just collateral.

If things changed for the worse… well- there were only so many options.

Curious, Catherine snapped her fingers, forcing down the smile that threatened to creep over her face at the appearance of a familiar bluish-white mist and the murmured crooning of the Messengers as their heads poked out of the ground.

Escaping was always an option. Or… it looked like she could bring a bit of Yharnam here, the pieces locked away in her trunk.

If that didn’t convince them, she didn’t know what could.


End file.
